Synonyms
by FlopsyOllie
Summary: "How many ways can you say 'self destruction'" An ongoing story about the girls of Glee with minimal Mercedes unfortunately, suffering with different issues. Slightly AU - heavy angst.
1. Rachel

**Synonyms**

_My first Glee fic ever! I'm a bit nervous about this – I'm not sure how to get the characters right yet. So that why this is a little AU. I'm going to do angsty oneshots of all the glee girls, from then on it might expand. They'll all have their own issues._

_Each chapter will have a synonym for "destruction" (because of the first quote). Enjoy!_

**WARNING:**_ This could be triggering for anyone who suffers from an eating disorder or (later on) self harms._

**Disclaimer**_**: **__I don't own Glee._

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"_How many ways can you say 'self destruction'?" - __Skinny_ by Ibi Kaslik

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_- Obliteration -_

_Rachel_

"We get sick of being impressive. Rather, we tire of having to seem impressive. As a rule, most of us never really believed we were any good in the first place."

- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

To the outside world, Rachel Berry is determination in its purest form, with a minor in "obsession" and "hotness" and an annoying edge to boot, because no one is that perfect.

Inside, she has been cut off from all landlines, left to float through space with no direction. And Rachel Berry does _not_ deal well with being out of control.

Something has to change. Now.

She guesses it all started since birth, since she never knew her real mother and had two gay dads who weren't quite sure how to talk to her about anything even remotely related to girl puberty. When she was nine they gave her a tub of popcorn and a health video, fearing all future questions. She didn't ask any, because she realized they wouldn't know the answers and it would only make things more awkward. No matter how hard they tried, the sheer fact that they weren't female screwed her over, just a little bit.

Throwing herself into performing eased the pain. It dragged her out of a hole and into the light. The spotlight made people see her. They saw her and envied her and wanted to be her.

All she ever wanted were some friends. But determination tends to push them away.

She likes to get into peoples faces and tell them what to do – it's a bad habit she's trying to break. She's never been much of a team player. Her social status gets her slushies to the face, online bashing, and insults scrawled across her locker. She puts on a brave face, because one day she'll be a star and they'll be filling up her eco-friendly gas tank, but in her heart every incident is like machine gun fire.

They never seem to run out of ammunition. Even in grade school, when the best they could come up with was pulling her hair or making her eat dirt, it stung.

She's not pretty and she's not smart. Anybody could sing and dance like her if they really tried.

And here is Rachel Berry in a nutshell: Confidence? Fake. Self-esteem? Fake. Smile? Fake. Fake.

_Fake._

She is molding herself into the perfect model of success, looking for a way to stop the pressure cooker from broiling her alive. And then it comes to her in sixth grade, when a twelve-year-old-version-of-Quinn-but-with-red-hair tells her she's fat. She goes home and looks in the mirror.

Yeah, she is kind of chubby. Her thighs jiggle when she walks.

It's disgusting.

Despite this, it starts slowly. She's on a never-ending diet for three years, restricting her food to carrot sticks and peanut butter crackers. It isn't working, so freshman year she decides to eat what she wants and become a vegan, because she feels sorry for all those baby animals, and she's heard a rumor that vegans loose weight faster than everyone else.

Then Quinn Fabray walks into her life and makes it a living hell.

Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe it's fate, but that's the first day Rachel purges her salad and her peanut butter crackers and her ricecakes. It's not as hard as she thought, but it's not as easy either. It seemed like such a… untouchable. Like someone would burst in the door any minute and put her in handcuffs. Nothing happened, besides puke in the toilet bowl. It hurts her throat and she thinks she scratched herself with her fingers, but she's okay.

She expects to feel something afterwards, but that's just it: she feels nothing. All the pain and torture she felt before is gone, flushed down the pipes. She feels nothing, and feeling nothing is better than feeling like shit.

So she flushes and brushes and flosses and sprays air freshener, and life continues on. She isn't thinking about how vomiting might hurt her vocal chords or screw up her body so she can't dance. She is on a high off of feeling nothing, so she goes back to her homework with a secret little smile on her face.

Glee is simply another way to reach the top, and maybe make some friends in the process. She manages to partially do the latter, even though they don't like her. Of course not; she's simply part of the group. She can sing, can't she? They need her.

But she's replaceable. Expendable. Not very special at all.

She's beginning to learn that no matter how many solos she nabs or how many boys she kisses, it won't cure the pain. At least – not like throwing up does.

It's in a league all its own. Ever since the first time, all she's wanted is to do it again and again and again-

So that's what happens. This is how cycles start, children. Watch carefully, and the vortex may just eat her alive.

Once it becomes the norm, she expects her paranoia to die down, but it doesn't. It keeps growing. She squirms underneath the stares of her fellow Glee club members, the way she can feel their eyes burning a hole in her back while she briskly walks away from the lunch table on her way to the bathroom (on the other side of the school, of course. She has a time table, and knows when each are usually empty at particular times of the day). They won't stage an intervention, because this is _Rachel Berry_ we're talking about, folks. Rachel Berry is strong, giddy, and confident.

Rachel Berry might as well be one step down from perfect, whatever the hell that means.

Rachel Berry wouldn't be stupid enough to try to puke out all her insides.

She tries hard to deny it. Maybe one day she'll have a rare good day, and think to herself "I'm going to stop." But then, something always seems to ruin it. Another blow comes to shatter that smile off her face and says _you don't deserve to be happy_. These voices threaten her heart's survival. In a way, eating everything in sight is a way to defy them. Then, the guilt is so overpowering, she has to get rid of it. There is such an overwhelming fear, a bombardment of images of herself suddenly swelling to unfathomable sizes, that she runs to the bathroom and hides the gagging noises underneath tap water. She holds her breath as to keep out the monstrosities, and wipes the slime away with the back of her hand. Her lipgloss is gone, but her mouth has turned ruby red from pressure. Her eyes are shimmering with tears she would normally never allow.

She sits and waits for her body to return to normal, for the mask to reset itself.

With the mask at hand, lying is easy, so easy it's almost a joke. She's a pro at faking it; years of dance performances taught her to smile like nothing else and make it look real. She isn't so good at hiding food, but there are plenty of tips she can read online. She stares at them for hours, the blue glow of the screen shading her face, thousands of girls whispering their secrets, just like her.

It is not glee club where she feels most accepted, but at these sites. They talk about weight and numbers like it's no big deal. They're allowed to discuss calories and workouts and ways to purge without being stared at or escorted to the nuthouse. Rachel finally feels like she belongs somewhere when she reads their words. They're encouraging, strong, inspiring. They're proof that one day, this could work.

She makes numerous vows to try harder. She leaves without breakfast, forgets her lunch money, speed walks up and down the halls at an attempt to lose more. It never works. Her stomach gets the best of her, and soon she doesn't care. She's eating everything in sight, ever too eager to get down onto her knees and feel the release of taking back all of her mistakes. It's almost like magic, like cheating the system, because everyone always says life doesn't work like this, but it does. She can make it so.

All is well in the land of corrosion. And then someone hears her.

A pregnant Quinn Fabray follows her into the bathroom, and therefore ruins her life once again. She isn't sure if she makes it a hell, because she's pretty sure she was living in hell already. Whatever happens, it just makes it that much worse.

She bribes her. Begs. Begs and begs for her not to tell, but Quinn won't make any promises. It sets a fear deep rooted in her soul, cursing the world, wondering why they just can't all shut the fuck up and leave her alone.

Because Quinn Fabray says she remembers the days of laxatives and meal plans. She remembers binging on a doughnut after fasting for two days, fainting in the locker room, and facing the scale during Cheerios practice. Quinn remembers when two pounds meant life or death, and doesn't want that to happen to anyone else.

Too bad it turns out that Rachel Berry is determination in its _sickest form_. She will stop at nothing to reach her goals, even if that means losing everything to gain back her worth through ivory bones and blue tinted flesh.

Quinn knowing her secret won't stop her. No, it'll only power her determination even more. Because if we know anything at all by now, folks, we know that Rachel Berry is not a quitter. Not in the slightest.

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_So there's chapter 1, from Rachel's point of view! She'll be struggling with bulimia. I hope you liked it. If you've got time, please review! Next will be Quinn._


	2. Quinn

_A/N: I know I just uploaded chapter 1 yesterday, but I'm bored and this is finished, so why not? I got many story alerts, but only two reviews! Please, if you could find the time, it makes me smile and motivates me, even if it's just one word! _

_I don't know for sure what religion Quinn is. Wikipedia told me she was Catholic, but Wikipedia often lies, but since it's my only source of information, I'll go with it. Doesn't really matter anyway, but I like little details like that…_

_- Annihilation -_

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_Quinn_

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"My mind is an ugly place and I can let almost anything go to rot in there."

_Skinny_ by Ibi Kaslik

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If Rachel Berry is one step down from perfect, the girl sitting at the bottom of the pedestal, then Quinn Fabray is the girl atop that pedestal, smiling down upon the little people.

At least, until she fell to her doom. But we'll get to that later.

There is no denying it: she's perfect. If you had asked anyone five months ago, they would've said the world was Quinn's oyster. She was the all around good girl, head cheerleader, president of the celibacy club, popular, and a virgin.

Well, nix that last one. This is why we don't judge books by their covers. Because Quinn Fabray could tell you, no matter what everyone else thought, she was far from perfect.

She was a sinner, and God, nor her Daddy, would ever forgive her.

If you asked her, she would first tell you she grew up in her church, and then in her home. Every Sunday was spent listening to the priest speak (more like scream) about how God forgives all sins, and how everyone should ward off the Devil by accepting God's love. She never understood why sinning was so bad if God would just forgive her, but when she asks, her mother just tells her to hush up.

So she prays about it, but no one gives her an answer. Well, she didn't expect God or Jesus or whoever to answer such a trivial question anyway. They've got bigger things to worry about, like world poverty and global warming.

So Quinn tries to be a good girl and doesn't question what anyone teaches her. She prays every night before she goes to bed and sometimes even reads the Bible when she's bored. She wears her gold cross around her neck faithfully, and she always obeys her parents and swears she'll practice abstinence until she's married.

Of course, she made that promise when she was twelve and sincerely thought she knew what she wanted out of life. Then she met Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman, turned sixteen, and everything changed.

Good little Catholic girls were suppose to be selfless and giving, but Quinn is a Cheerio and worries about her weight all the time like a selfish little (fat?) girl. Sin number one.

Good little Catholic girls are kind to their neighbors. Quinn is the most popular girl in school; the head bitch. She issues slushie facials daily, and has been so nasty to other girls she's made them cry. Sin number two.

Good little Catholic girls always trust in God, never question their religion or their parents, and never _ever_ think about sex. Sin number three, four, and five.

Good little Catholic girls do not get drunk on wine coolers.

Sin number six.

Good little Catholic girls do not commit adultery by cheating on their boyfriend with his best friend.

Sin number seven.

And good little Catholic girls certainly do not have sex outside of marriage. Not unless they want to burn in Hell.

That might as well be the biggest sin of them all. The biggest sin she's ever committed. So big, maybe God can't even forgive her.

At first she doesn't feel so guilty, because she's sixteen and she's invincible, and she still prays at night like she's suppose to and nothing's gone wrong.

But then she misses her period.

And then she can't keep anything down besides saltine crackers.

And then, perfect little Quinn Fabray's life comes crashing down from the pedestal, through the floor, down to places so awful, maybe God doesn't even know about them.

That's why she finally decides to stop being so afraid of Hell. She's already living through it.

God will not punish her by sending her to the fiery depths, oh no. That's too easy. The Heavenly Father has decided to punish her in ways much more hurtful.

He gives her a curse. A precious curse that makes her stomach swell and her family turn her back on her.

She lies. She says the baby is Finn's, not Noah's, just to cover up all her other sins, and she doesn't tell her parents.

And now she's really lost count of how many sins she's committed, and she thinks she's stopped caring. She doesn't even know if she believes in God anymore, because He never helped her when she needed Him, nor did He save her from this awful fate.

That loss of self, of faith, is what really sends her over the edge.

Quinn doesn't know much, but she knows that she's never happy anymore. She is angry and sad, and secretly hates herself every time someone calls her fat or a loser. She's bruised and broken from falling off that pedestal, and for a while she can pretend that after these nine months of Hell are up, she may climb back up and sit pretty like nothing ever happened.

But in the back of her mind, she knows she has been banished for the rest of eternity. God doesn't let sinners back into Heaven. Neither does her father.

She's been kicked out, moved out three times, and lost a lot of trust along the way. Her stomach won't stop growing, Puck won't leave her alone, and Finn is an idiot. When they all find out the truth, she just feels herself sinking deeper. Finn doesn't want her and she doesn't want Puck. She doesn't want anyone anymore, not even this child growing in her womb.

She loses a light in her eyes, because she tossed her Bible in a storm drain and is seriously thinking about just throwing herself down the stairs and ending it all. Why not? No one wants this baby. Not her parents, not Finn, not Puck (well… maybe, but she never should've slept with him in the first place). No one wants her.

What's the point in sticking around when everyone wants her gone?

She is the modern version of Hester Prynne, but no one needs to sew a scarlet letter onto her chest. Everyone already knows, from her stomach, her lack of uniform, and her defeated stride. Afterwards, they will still remember, even if she doesn't keep the baby. She will always be "You know, Quinn, that pregnant girl?" until she moves far, far away and never comes back.

It's not like anyone would miss her, right?

Noah wants to name the baby "Beth" because of some stupid song, even though Quinn knows she's not theirs to name. Beth, short for Elizabeth, means "devotion to God." When she discovers this, she laughs. It's so ironic. Maybe her _daughter_ (she almost shudders at the word) will be committed just like her, trapped in this never-knowing, never-ending cycle.

On days like this, when she has no hope and takes sleeping pills just so she won't have to face the world, she wishes God would just hurry up and strike her down. He won't, because this is her punishment.

She'll be living with this sin, this dirty, terrible _sin_, for the rest of her life. And the Catholic born and raised in her just can't get over it. Why did she ever let it happen? Why was she so stupid?

Of course, Puck tells her she's not stupid. Mr. Schuester tells her she's not stupid. The entire freaking Glee club tells her _she's not stupid_, but what the hell do they know? They're not the ones who betrayed their parents and God and can't even live in their own home or go to their church or wear all their favorite clothes because they're pregnant and fat and stupid and a _sinner_.

Finn (or Puck, or Mercedes), doesn't notice her crying herself to sleep every night. They don't notice her anger, except when she sings. They don't notice her depression, because she's good at hiding. They don't notice her sins, because they think she's a good person…

… but she's a horrible person. A horrible, _horrible_…

She writes words on her body with marker, so she can always be reminded of her wrongdoings. Mostly where they can't see, or she makes sure to wear long sleeves. Words like _fat, stupid, ugly, slut, whore…_

_Sinner._

And sure, she sounds like a broken record, but maybe that's all she is, because that's all that matters. No one else understands. They don't go to church every Sunday, and they never had a holy communion, which is like bar mitzvah for Catholic kids, where their grandmother gave them a solid gold cross and told them they were special. They never listened to their priest since day one, instilling the fear of God (and the Devil) in their heart. They never took everything the world expected out of them and tore it all to shreds.

Maybe they've betrayed a promise to their father, but never to a Heavenly one. Simply no one understands how monumental this is, and the only ones who do will not speak to sinners like her.

And for the first time in her life, Quinn Fabray wishes she wasn't so damn Holy.

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_I really wanted to explore the more religious-guilt ridden side of Quinn. I can't imagine her feeling completely okay with the situation (faith wise), considering how prominent religion seems to be in her life. I thought about how it might affect (effect? Honestly, I've given up getting them right) Quinn's life, ultimately throwing her into a depression. I'll be expanding more once her turn comes around again._

_ALSO, I need your input! Should Mercedes be in this? Because honestly, I have no ideas for her. She's so confident, I don't know how to bring her down to my angsty-ness… Please tell me if you have any ideas! If not, I doubt she'll be in this, sorry…_


	3. Tina

_Devastation_

_Tina_

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"I grew into it. It grew into me. It and I blurred at the edges, became one amorphous, seeping, crawling thing."

_Wasted _by Marya Hornbacher

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Tina Cohen-Chang is invisible.

No, really. She is. Sometimes, she actually wonders if someone zapped her with a freaky ray while she was sleeping, and now no one can see her.

Though if she was being honest, she's always liked being invisible. It let's her hide.

Ever since she was a little girl, Tina's been shy. Her parents called it "quiet." They said being shy was just a phase. One day she would grow out of it and make plenty of friends.

Tina didn't know any better, so she listened. When she got to middle school, she thought she'd finally change and meet new people. She changed, alright, but not in the way her parents wanted.

It was the middle of sixth grade, fourth period. She had to give a speech about the Missouri Compromise, and she was terrified. Tina was shaking so bad, everyone could see her note cards quivering in her hands. She stood up at the front of the class, so nauseous she just might throw up all over the kids in the front row, when she got an idea. The most brilliant idea she's ever had.

"I… in eighteen t...t... twenty…"

At first, the teacher just assumed she sucked at reading, since Tina hardly talked in class anyway, but she caught on around the fourth or fifth line. The girl has a stutter, and the kids are laughing at her, and there's a possibility she may get sued for this. So Tina gets to sit down and never has to make a speech again (at least, not until high school, where no one cares if she cries).

The best part about having a stutter? No one tries to talk to her. _Ever._

Since she's terrified of human interaction (literally; she really is terrified), being alone feels like the best thing that could ever happen to her. No one asks her questions. No one even says hello. There are no surprises, and everything is perfect. She can live alone in silence.

When her parents get the phone call from the school, they're distraught. They tell her she's still smart, this won't affect her GPA, and set up sessions with the best speech therapist in the county. Her name is Judy, and she tells her if she works hard enough, one day her stutter will go away.

But Tina doesn't want that. Oh no, why would she? Then, people might talk to her. And that means she would have to talk back, except she never knows what to say. Her heart starts racing and her palms get sweaty, and she just sits there like an idiot and doesn't say anything, mouth gaping. Eventually, people leave. They always do. They think she's rude and a freak because she never opens her mouth.

Deep down inside, she wishes she could talk to people. But the truth? She can't. She doesn't know why, but she can't.

It's like there's something stuck in her throat and it just won't go away. Inside, her mind is reeling. What if they don't like her? They probably don't. They're thinking, "Wow, why did I even say anything? She's ugly and she's a weirdo and she's stupid. I should just leave right now." So she stumbles. Falls. Her brain is constantly telling her that people don't like her, that everything is wrong with her. Her existence is simply _wrong_.

When people ask her what's wrong, she doesn't know how to tell them. Doesn't everyone live like this?

(Later, she learns it's called having "shitty self-esteem" and being shy and quiet and a loner all roped into one.)

Well, no, not everyone. That's why they're happy and she's not.

Secretly, inside, Tina starts to hate people. She says it's because they're annoying and stupid, but really it's just the fact that they have the ability to be happy. It's within their grasp. They can talk and laugh without having a panic attack. She can't, and she'll be jealous for eternity.

Instead of dwelling on it, she digs out every black piece of clothing she can find. When her mother takes her shopping, she sticks to dark shades and buys hair dye in three different colors.

If she's the weird emo kid, then maybe no one will even _look at her_. Not even teachers.

She can truly fade into the background. And really, that's all Tina wants. To fade away.

Glee wasn't part of the plan (or maybe it was; she's having this problem where her body and mind feel like two different entities), except she knows she can kind of sing, and now maybe she'll at least make one friend. Of course, she gains much more than that, at least a place of belonging, and she falls in love with a nerdy boy in a wheelchair.

Artie wasn't part of the plan, either (not that there was much of a plan in the first place). She certainly never meant to tell him her stutter wasn't real, but no matter how sorry she is, he hates her for two weeks anyway.

He doesn't have the option of bringing people around, nor can he drop his disability at a moment's notice, so Arite doesn't understand why she'd want to push people away.

Of course, it's not like she understands it either, so she doesn't really know what to say.

All Tina knows is that her mouth doesn't work like everyone else's, that's just life, and she has no idea what to do about it. She's sorry he's angry (probably a lot of people would be angry, if they knew), but at the same time she just doesn't care.

If Tina has to talk to people like a normal person, she thinks she might die. There's nothing else to do except run away.

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_Sorry it's kind of short, but this was hard to write, probably because I suffer from the same issue... anyway, please review! It'd make me update faster!_

_Hope you liked it! :)_


	4. Brittany

_Ruin_

_Brittany_

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"While I craved attention, I was terrified of letting someone else into my imperfect, hateful world."

_Skinny _by Ibi Kaslik

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Brittany isn't smart, she knows that. She stopped paying attention to school in seventh grade, because Brett Williams sat next to her in math class and skipping science to go shopping was way more entertaining than learning about how plants make babies (even though baby plants were probably really cute…). She just doesn't care about stuff like that. It's too hard to actually figure out, and it's not like she needs any of it.

Once Brittany learns how to add and subtract, she's all set. Instead of practicing with flash cards, her mother helped her practice by figuring out how many calories were in a bowl of cereal (140), and then how many calories were in a piece of toast (80). Add them together, and what does that equal? (220)

There. Right there was how much she had eaten for breakfast that morning, in number form. And her mother would pat her on the head and tell her she was a very good girl. A _very smart girl_.

Except Brittany soon learns that she isn't very smart. If she can't be smart for her mother, she has to be pretty. Pretty enough, anyway.

She tries to build bridges by dieting with her, but her mother feels a little queasy about sharing a diet with her eleven year old (the woman does have a small guilty conscience after all, only triggered in certain ways…), so she encourages Brittany to start her own.

But Brittany isn't very good at keeping track of things (like where her pet goldfish went and her phone number and food), so she decides to just not eat so much. After all, she isn't good at math, but she knows what the numbers mean (_fat, carbs, worth, _and_ happiness_, to name a few).

Maybe if she was skinny enough, her mother would be proud of her again, and hug her like she used to.

It's not like dieting is hard. It's easy. She forgets things all the time, so "forgetting" to eat isn't much of a stretch. Instead, she spends her time running on the treadmill and practicing her toe touches. She's on the middle school cheering squad, and one day she'll be going to William McKinley High School. They've won Nationals for the past four years, and Brittany wants to make the squad, no matter what.

The day she goes to tryouts, on a hot summer day in early August, is the day she meets her best friend. Santana is sitting in the corner in a split, stretching. She has silky black hair and dark skin, and she's prettier than any other girl she's ever seen, so Brittany introduces herself. It isn't long before they bond underneath the wrath of their new coach, Sue Sylvester. During her two week boot camp, they decide to stick together. By the first day of school, they already have their schedules synchronized and have learned how to stomach Miss Sylvester's "Master Cleanse." They've both earned a spot, and they want to keep it.

Pretty soon, the pecking order falls into place. Quinn gets to be captain because she's pretty and skinny and talented. Brittany and Santana fall in step behind her. Quinn's good at giving orders, but she's too busy making gooey-eyes at Finn to be much of a friend. Brittany relies on Santana for just about everything.

She helps her cheat on her homework and gets her into parties. Santana's the reason Brittany decides it would be fun to try to make out with every guy in the school. She helps her _understand _things. Real school things, like how to do (some of) her algebra homework, and what those cell things her biology teacher keeps yelling about look like.

And even though Santana seems really smart, she doesn't know much about dieting. So Brittney helps her. She shows her the old dieting books her mom put on her bookshelf and the meal plans on the fridge. She teaches Santana about willpower, avoiding hunger, counting calories, and motivation. She helps her buy her first box of laxatives, and Brittany's the one who shows Santana how to purge in an abandoned bathroom one day, the both of them hunched together over the same toilet. She tells her all about lying and starving and how good it feels to be empty.

Santana just looks at her with this sad smile and nods. Brittany just figures it's hard for her to be so hungry all the time, but she'll get over it soon.

After all, Brittany got over it three years ago. It's not so bad after that.

She loves Santana so much, sometimes she kisses her. They don't talk about it much; Santana doesn't like to. Brittany's fine with that, at least it means she cares about her.

That's why she and Santana are best friends. They miss having someone appreciate them (in the right ways. Not that they ever knew what "right" or "normal" meant in the first place).

It's nice to know that Santana loves her, even though her mother doesn't. Santana will talk about carbs with her. She'll talk about hiding food and skipping dinner. Santana doesn't care if she runs for six miles because she's _fat fat fat_, and Brittany likes that. She likes having someone to trust.

Sometimes, when Brittany keeps talking about calories and how much she wants to weigh in a months time, Santana gets this look on her face (Brittany thinks it looks like someone just stole her puppy) that's so sad, and she doesn't know why. Whenever she asks her about it, Santana just smiles and says everything's fine.

Brittany likes that, too. With the both of them, everything is always fine, even if it doesn't feel like it. One day, it will be.

She's never told anyone this (besides her cat), but Brittany likes seeing her bones coming through her skin. It's almost like magic, because everyone says no one looks that way, and yet she does. She likes counting her ribs and feeling the hollow cave of her stomach, the shards of her hipbones. She knows something's wrong with her, because she shouldn't like it, and if anyone ever found out they'd lock her up somewhere.

So she doesn't tell anyone, except for Santana, because she will love her no matter what.

Santana is the only one who makes Brittany feels okay. When she's around, the voices in her head don't tell her she's stupid or ugly. She laughs and she's happy, if only for a little while. Sometimes, she doesn't even feel fat.

Of course, it all comes back once she leaves, and the voices punish Brittany for being a bad little girl, and make her run or do crunches, or don't let her eat for the next three days. No one notices. Her mother just smiles and says _"You look good, honey. Have you lost weight?"_

Brittany just smiles, because her mother noticed her, and she looks good, but it's still not enough. One day, she'll be skinny enough, although she's yet to figure out when that'll happen.

Oh well. The point is, she can't give up. Because _nothing tastes as good as thin feels._

_Writing Brittany was actually pretty fun, even though it was angsty. Were my jokes lame? I thought they were kinda lame... oh well, it wasn't really the main point anyway. Some of you might think Brittany being anorexic while Rachel is already bulimic is a little repetetive, but they're different diseases. I plan on treating them both differently (Brittany has more of a simplistic view towards it... more of a "in denial" aspect, whereas Rachel knows what's going on.)_

_Thanks for reading! Review!_


	5. Santana

_Warning: Language. I blame Santana. Expect a lot of language in all of her chapters. _

_Damage_

_Santana_

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"But in some ways, the most significant choices one makes in life are done for reasons that are not all that dramatic, not earth-shaking at all; often enough, the choices we make are, for better or for worse, made by default."

_Wasted _by Marya Hornbacher

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Santana Lopez doesn't care what people think about her. End of story.

After years of struggling in this tiny, Midwestern town, she's learned that other people's opinions don't matter. Nothing they say matters because it won't change anything about her life.

(_Nothing will change any of this because ruts are ruts you fool._)

She was born to first generation Latino Americans (and yeah, despite popular belief, her parents were actually legal. They emigrated from Colombia when they were twenty two). Her Mama worked as a seamstress for minimum wage, and her Papa was a construction worker and a nasty drunk. They were low middle class stuck in Lima suburbia. When they got angry, they screamed in Spanish, and the neighbors pulled down the shades. No one wanted to be involved with people who weren't "American."

Santana knows that most people won't ever see her parents as American. They'll never be like everyone else because of their skin and their accent and their culture. When she was little, she hated that. She hated where they lived and her school, but Mama said it was easier to live here than in California or Arizona. It was easier to get jobs in the north because there weren't so many Latinas. People were more forgiving.

More forgiving? Sure. More accepting? Not. She quickly learns they're two very different things.

(_No one accepts people like you-_)

This is the reason Santana starts staying up past her bedtime to listen to normal English people speaking. By the time she's six, she doesn't have an accent, and she makes more friends at school. Kids always were a little bit nicer, until their parents put ideas into their heads or they grew up and started following the crowd.

(_And then the world tilted and the chips fell, and fate decided to throw you to the sharks._)

When she's eight, everything changes.

Papa's always been mean, she knows that. When he gets drunk, he hits Mama, and he'd hit her too if she wasn't smart enough to stay out of his way. Sometimes when they yell in the middle of the night, she crawls under her bed and buries her face in a pillow, and whishes she didn't know how to speak Spanish. Usually it's enough, and she can fall asleep safely and wake up the next morning, and everything's the same. (_Except not, but as long as no one asks about the bruises, we won't tell_)

But one night, Santana wakes up to the sound of her door creaking open. It's Papa, come for a visit. He shuts the door and crawls into bed with her. She knows something's wrong, because she's not an idiot. She and her father don't have this kind of relationship, even when he's sober. Right now, he smells like whiskey and dirt.

(_Somehow, she knows that this isn't normal for anyone_.)

He starts by stroking her hair, and then it goes on to kissing. Eventually, on another night not too far down the road, it goes on to places she only sees in her nightmares. She stares at the ceiling and imagines living in California and being a movie star, and tells herself not to cry.

When she cries anyway, Papa gets up and says only stupid, weak little girls cry, and leaves. She wipes her tears away with the ears of her stuffed rabbit, and lies awake all night, listening to traffic. The next morning, she eats breakfast at the table with him like nothing happened. (_she won't let herself cry for the next nine years_)

If she tells herself not to feel anything, maybe she really won't. It seems like a good philosophy, and she's willing to try.

Pretty soon, Papa's spending the night with her at least twice a week. Mama doesn't say anything, and Santana prays to God every night that He'll keep him away from her little sister. Maybe that's why she never tells a soul. She'd rather have Papa hurt her than Angelita. (_sometimes she wishes she wasn't so selfless_.)

When she's eleven, she finds out that boys think she's hot, so she buys short skirts and lipstick and pretends to be fourteen. Nothing much happens beyond kissing, because everyone's little and they don't know the things she knows. She gets it. She gets that what goes on inside her house doesn't happen in their houses, but Santana's never been like the other kids. She speaks Spanish and is all Colombian, yet American, and her family likes to keep secrets like nobody's business. So what?

She tells herself it's no big deal. Once she gives in, says life's just one big game, everything's a joke. (_and everyone forgot to laugh, oops, your bad_.)

In seventh grade, she starts going to high school parties. She's thirteen, but she knows how to dress the part, so the guys are oblivious and think she's a freshman from some other school. She drinks beer and has sex with the first guy who isn't related to her in April. It's quick and sweaty and not romantic at all, but that's the way she wants it. It shouldn't feel like anything.

(_She stopped letting herself feel emotions a long time ago_.)

After that, she fucks with more guys, goes to more parties. She still has to be home every night, and starts to develop insomnia from his visits and her paranoia. She skips English class to go sleep in the gym storage closet where they keep all the mats. No one cares, and she still passes English with a D because the teacher feels sorry for her. (_She hates to be pitied_.)

Santana meets Brittany during Cheerio tryouts the summer before their freshmen year. She's a bubbly blonde with a low IQ, but Santana sees something special in her. She listens, for one thing, and she loves people no matter what, probably because she doesn't know any better. Before she knows it, they're best friends. She's never really had a best friend before, so it's a little weird, but at the same time it's nice. It's nice to have someone who's always there for her.

Even though at the same time, that could be her downfall, because Brittany wants to have a sleepover. She wants to know why they can never stay at Santana's house. There isn't a good enough lie in the world that would make her feel okay about lying to the girl. She just takes her pinkie, something they've started to do, and tells her it's complicated. This seems to be enough, for now.

(_one day, what if it isn't enough and she finds out and thenthenthen-?_)

She signs up for Spanish to help Brittany, and when administration asks if she already speaks, she lies and calls them racist. That gets them to shut up, because they don't want to get sued. She fails most of the tests on purpose so no one catches on, because she's supposed to be a dumb cheerleader. Inside, maybe it's just another way to deny her heritage. She never wanted to be related to her parents in the first place.

Spanish I, freshmen year, is the first time she sees Noah Puckerman. He's the bad boy and she's the bad girl. Stereotypically, they're not suppose to mesh, but he won't realize it until he starts seeing Quinn Fabray as more than just his best friend's girlfriend, and even then he'll still come back for more. Puck's just another guy at first, another way to forget about shit and party while she can. But somehow, there's something different about him. Like… he actually almost cares about her or something.

They both know they're just friends with benefits, especially after he knocks up Quinn and has to take care of her. He has to act like the concerned baby daddy and make it all okay. Santana just rolls her eyes, because that's what she does. He loves Quinn, so what? She doesn't need love. (_She doesn't need anyone…_)

Not that she has feelings for him. Santana doesn't _have_ feelings. (_Especially not for any dumbass of the male species_.)

Of course, Puck's not scary, not like_ him_. He's actually nice sometimes, not that he'd ever let it show. A few brief moments in the hall and slightly mushy text messages are mostly what he gives. He's always nice to her when they're fooling around – compliments, asking her what _she_ wants; the whole nine yards. She always just chalked that up to him making sure he'd actually be able to get into her pants, but once they've been together a few times and he's still doing it, she thinks he might actually be genuine about what he's saying.

She knows that if Puck knew about her Papa (not that she'd ever tell him), he'd kill him with his bare hands. That makes her… happy. Safe. At least someone gives a shit about her, even if it's only because she's good in bed.

Maybe that's the only way anyone will ever care about her. She even fools around with Brittney. Santana doesn't really know why, because she doesn't think she's a lesbian. She likes boys (obviously), but Brittney's always been different. Sometimes, she actually likes being with her better than with any other guy. Because Brittney is gentle and sweet and actually cares about her feelings—

And she has nothing to do with the nightmares lurking underneath the bed.

So maybe she'll fuck with girls. She'll fuck with guys. Whatever. The way she sees it, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. She's already lost (_not that she'd ever admit it_). She's already damaged (_when she's not in denial_). So she should just keep going until she's all the way broken (_And who let it break again?_). Until she's all the way (_dead_) unfixable, unlovable, untouchable—

(_Because this in-between shit is so overrated_.)

* * *

_I have to say, Santana's probably one of my favorites to write so far, and one of the saddest._

_Next is Rachel, and people actually get to interact with each other! Yay!_

_Hope you enjoyed it. Please review!_


	6. Rachel II

_Eradication_

_Rachel_

_._

"_And so it came to pass that one day, stuffed full of Fritos, I took a little trip downstairs to the bathroom. No one gave me the idea. It just seemed obvious that if you put it in, you could take it out."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

_._

Rachel Berry's never been much of a concern to anyone. More of an annoyance, really. It's always been that way.

She can't imagine why anyone would care about her in the slightest. Her fathers are obligated to, but anyone else? Why? They don't need to.

She's annoying and she's stupid and she's ugly and she's a bitch.

There. Enough proof for you?

She needs to fix it. She needs a way to make the voices go away, to ease the guilt. She needs a way to find silence and solace in just one moment…

And she doesn't really care what will happen, because puking works. Puking just fucking _works_ and no one can tell her otherwise. No one can ever convince her to change because she doesn't need to change.

Right now, this is working. One day, it'll be perfect. She'll get out of this town and be a star on Broadway. The entire world will know her name. They'll scream as she walks down the street. They'll look after her and say, "Look, there's Rachel Berry! Isn't she _lovely_?"

She wants some form of loveliness, and right now all she has is ivory jetting out from underneath flesh. She knows it's sick and disgusting, but she finds bones beautiful, even if no one else does. She's never exactly been one to follow the crowd.

It's the reason she's sitting here in the stall farthest away from the door. In the bathroom the farthest distance possible from the cafeteria. She ate an entire sandwich at lunch _and_ a few of the cookies Mercedes made (Finn kept staring at her and she was hungry…). Now, she feels like she's going to explode. It's as if her entire world is going to come crashing down if that food - that _poison - _stays inside her. She never should've eaten it. Stupid, stupid, stupid-

She's going to get fat now. She's an idiot with absolutely no control over any part of her, body or mind. A stupid, worthless bitch with nothing to offer. Except this. Only this.

The fear – the guilt - is overwhelming. It needs to get out_. Getoutgetoutgetout_—

Rachel bends down, kneeling in front of the toilet. She pulls her hair back with her emergency elastic and flushes the toilet. As soon as the water's running, she shoves her fingers down her throat as far as they will go, until her stomach lurches and vomit spews back up into the bowl. It wasn't always so easy – it took her thousands of tries to finally get it right. Now she has it down to almost a science. After she ate, she drank as much water as she could from the tap. She didn't let herself hesitate. As soon as the coast was clear, she did what had to be done.

It only takes four tries before she's pretty sure all of it's gone (it looks that way, at least. She'd rather not describe the mush sitting in front of her). She takes toilet paper and wipes the slime off her hands, one finger at a time. She takes another piece and wipes her mouth and runny nose, another still to dab at the tears springing from her eyes. Once she checks her compact and sees her face looks almost normal, she stands up, flushes, and coughs. She waits for it all to go away before she leaves. She can't have any not go down and then someone somehow find out it was her…

"Rachel?"

She looks down. There are shoes standing outside, shoes that hopefully haven't been standing there too long. A panic rushes through her. What if they heard something? What if they _heard_ and now they're _going to tell_-

Shut up and open the door.

"Rachel, is that you?"

She unlocks the stall and finds herself standing in front of Quinn Fabray. Damn. As if she had to be the one…

"Oh. Hi, Quinn," she brushes past her easily, turning on the cold faucet. She dips her hands underneath the stream and drinks some of the water, swishing it around and spitting it back out. She then washes her hands, taking longer than necessary.

"Are you okay? You sounded like you were throwing up."

She wonders why she cares. Like she ever even noticed her before glee club, except when she felt the need to make her miserable.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just felt a little sick, that's all."

"Well, do you want me to go get the nurse?"

"No. I can't go home; I've got a test next period. But thanks, I'll be okay."

And she smiles, like it actually means something, leaving Quinn standing alone in the bathroom, denying the look of suspicion on her face.

No one will find out. No one will _suspect_ anything. She's better at lying than they are at asking questions. She's better at stuffing and puking than they are at caring.

At least she's good at _something_.

Of course, as she knows by now, nothing comes easily (in fact, it usually sucks until you get off your ass and do something about it). So _of course_, Quinn corners her at the end of the day. _Of course_ she lies at her locker, swapping books and fluffing her hair a bit before heading to glee club. _Of course_ she's fine. _Of course._

"What were you doing in the bathroom?"

It's almost funny. Does she really expect an honest answer?

She laughs a bit, just for effect, "I told you, Quinn. I just felt a little nauseous. I'm fine now, really."

"I'm not an idiot, Rachel. Unless you're pregnant or have the plague, you don't have much of a reason to be visiting the bathroom everyday after lunch."

Her eyes are hard and glaring. This is the same girl who used to tell her she'd be doing the world a favor if she just happened to get hit by a passing semi. Why, exactly, should she trust her? Because she's pregnant and seems to have turned over a new leaf? People don't change that easily.

"Really, I'm perfectly fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't enjoy being late to rehearsal," she turns on her heel to walk away.

"Since they cured the plague a while ago, are you pregnant?"

She turns back around again. Quinn is resting her hand on her stomach. Now she's thinking she can be the concerned mentor, the "I've been through this before" girl, the shoulder to cry on.

Too bad she isn't pregnant. Nothing's even wrong. What's the big deal if it makes her feel better?

Though when it comes to secrets, she'd rather have the whole world think she's pregnant than know the truth, "Maybe I am."

But unfortunately, the ex Cheerio is smarter than she looks, "Who could you have slept with? I know you didn't sleep with Jesse."

"I slept with Finn," maybe only in her dreams, but that miniscule detail doesn't matter.

Quinn rolls her eyes, laughing, "Okay, Berry, since you really want to play this game. Even if you did have sex with him, which I highly doubt you did, since you wouldn't be able to keep your trap shut about it, this camping out in the bathroom thing has been going on for at least a month, probably longer. If you were pregnant, you'd at least be showing a tiny bit by now, but you're not. You're skinnier than before."

She isn't exactly sure how to respond to that. Quinn certainly pays attention, and she wishes she didn't.

"Fine. I'm not pregnant, but that doesn't mean anything's wrong. I just didn't feel well," she slams her locker shut, unwilling to continue the conversation, and begins to swiftly walk down the hall towards the choir room. Quinn stands there for a minute, looking after her, before following as quickly as her protruding stomach allows.

"Okay, Rachel, don't deal with it! Someone will figure it out eventually!"

She turns the corner, breaking out into a run where Quinn can't see; that would be a dead giveaway she's hiding something.

She only needs to hide because they wouldn't understand. No one understands what's different. She's known that her whole life. They don't understand why she loves Broadway, and they certainly wouldn't understand why she throws up. She's better off alone.

Quinn won't tell. She can't, because then Rachel would just point out how she hasn't exactly been herself, either. Quinn's not as good at hiding as she is, and she can see that the other girl is depressed. About what, she doesn't know – doesn't care. She's got enough of her own problems to deal with, but she's almost positive that Quinn wouldn't enjoy the whole world knowing what she's hiding, either.

An eye for an eye. As Rachel walks into the choir room and sits down calmly, smile plastered on tight, she notices Quinn waddle in, taking a seat in the corner. Before she pulls her shirt sleeve down, Rachel notices words in blue ink decorating the other girl's wrist. Then it's gone, Quinn fingering the fabric nervously, staring at the floor.

Hmm. How _peculiar._ Rachel tucks away this bit of information for later investigation, and stands up once Mr. Schuester calls her name, ready to sing whatever she has to before he lets her sit down again. She doesn't like being the center of attention anymore.

One day, maybe they'll all leave her alone, and the world will be a better place.

.

_It's been a while since I updated... I've been trying to write ahead, and then I got caught up in writing ahead and forgot to post this! Oops. Hope you liked it!_


	7. Quinn II

_So the next chapter isn't done yet, but I figured I'd put this up because I'm leaving on Thursday and will be gone on vacation for the rest of the week. No updates till August! Enjoy Quinn for now._

_Carnage_

_Quinn_

_._

"I am locked into the mirror and there is no door out."

- Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson

.

Usually, Quinn lies awake at night and wonders what happened.

She doesn't even know why she did it, except maybe she was sick of being good and perfect even though she really wasn't. She was sick of being expected to fulfill her parents' lives with something they could never reach themselves. She wanted to do the unexpected.

That didn't include being forced to sleep on her back for nine months.

She's slept on her stomach ever since she was a kid. It's the only way she can fall asleep. Now, she can't. She lies there all night staring at the ceiling, at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars Noah's little sister has stuck up there. She watches them until they stop glowing, and then she stares at the clock, at the nine year old sleeping in the other bed.

Usually at this point, it's around midnight and she's starting to go insane. So she grabs a sharpie and locks herself in the bathroom, holding out her arm.

She started writing on herself the night her parents kicked her out. Quinn doesn't know _why_, exactly, and she doesn't like to think about what it could lead to, the _other_ forms of writing she could do. But it reminds her of what she is.

A disappointment. A screw up. A failure.

She mostly writes on her left arm because it's easiest. When she runs out of room, she uses her right arm, and she's gotten surprisingly good at writing with her non-dominant hand. On a few rare occasions, she's had to move down to her legs, but usually the shower washes away enough ink to leave space on her upper body.

She never writes on her stomach. It doesn't seem right. Her baby didn't ask for this. _She did_.

This is her fault, not her unborn child's.

Of course, writing all over herself means hiding it. She can't just waltz into school with ink all over her. Quinn makes sure she always wears long sleeves or sweatshirts. It would be a problem if someone suddenly realized what she's doing. What would she even say? There isn't really an explanation. No one would believe she writes insults on herself for fun. Hearts and swirls, maybe, but profanities? They wouldn't buy it. If she doesn't understand it, why would they?

She can't explain it if she doesn't understand.

Luckily, no one's really asked. They all just figure she's a little down because her parents kicked her out and Finn won't look at her. Not to mention she's living with Puck, which isn't exactly easy. He might've knocked her up, but he's not her boyfriend. They've called it quits on "making it work" for the time being, all too obvious from Santana's ponytail bouncing down the hallway to Noah's room when Mrs. Puckerman isn't home. She's only living there because she doesn't have anywhere else to go.

It's surreal, knowing this is her last resort, that she really as no other option. Before, she took her life for granted. She took her own bed, her popularity, and her parents for granted. Then again, no one ever really sees what they have until it's gone.

This is just another lesson. Another punishment.

Quinn doesn't like to be in the house when Puck is with Santana or any other girl. Usually she walks down the street to the park and sits on a swing, gently rocking back and forth. It reminds her of the night she slept with him, the way it felt, how for the tiniest moment she wondered "what if this is a mistake?" before pushing it away. She wonders if people like Santana ever think about those things. If they ever wonder if they'll end up alone on a playground, just them and their unborn fetus.

Probably not. She can't imagine too many people think about that. It's a bit pathetic.

She's pathetic.

It's thoughts like this that make her feel bad. There aren't any other words for it, just… _bad_. Despite its simplicity, it seems to sum everything up perfectly. For some reason, when she feels bad, she needs to see it.

She rolls up her sleeve to her elbow. The words _slut_ and _idiot_ are still there, faded. The permanent marker comes out of her pocket, gripped tightly in her fingers. Slowly, she writes, the word nestled in between the other two. _Pathetic_.

It's there. It's real. She can look at it all she wants and know it's true because it's _right there_, staining her arm black.

She pulls her sleeve back down with the words out of view, wiping her eyes for tears that aren't there. For some reason, she doesn't really cry anymore. She doesn't feel much of anything. Everything is just empty, even though her stomach grows bigger every day. It feels like there's no point in anything she does. How can there be a point if there's no hope? No way to fix anything? Nothing to believe…

She used to be able to pray about things. Whenever she was confused or scared, she could pray and then everything would feel better, somehow. It was like if no one else was listening, at least someone was, even if she couldn't see them. At least someone cared.

But now? How could anyone care? How could _anyone_ care about someone like her?

The only reason she's still going is because of the baby.

At first, that fact scared her. She's over it now. She's stopped being concerned about much of anything. She's stopped _feeling_. It hurts too much to feel. It's become much easier to stay up all night and sleep all day.

Quinn sits awake on the swings, simply listening to silence. Everyone is at home in bed. She wonders if anyone is still awake. What could they be doing? What happens during the night when it's safe to let your secrets out? Are the other people who can't sleep just like her? Do they have as much guilt? Shame? Rejection? Somehow, she doubts anyone could feel like she does. How anyone could sit up all night staring at nothing?

It's a way of self-torture, almost. She sits at the playground, thinking… one day, Beth could play on this playground. She could climb across the monkey bars and bounce up and down on the see-saw. If she was keeping her.

But Quinn isn't keeping her. She can't raise a baby. Even though she's sure this was meant to be a lifelong punishment, she doesn't have to keep her. People are allowed to give away their children and never look back.

She probably will look back, though. Even though she hates it, she thinks she'll probably look back a lot. She'll wonder what Beth looks like and how she does in school and when she gets her first kiss. She'll wonder if she feels safe and listened to, unlike she did. She'll wonder if her new family will talk about their problems, unlike her family.

If Beth gets pregnant, will her new father kick her out? Will her new mother ignore it and not even care?

Quinn knows she wouldn't do that. Puck wouldn't either. They'd just tell her everything would be okay, and support her…

If only she _wanted_ her. Will she ask about that one day, too? Why Quinn didn't want her? She hopes she won't take it personally. Quinn realizes she doesn't _want_ much of anything anymore, including a baby or a working relationship with the father. She just wants to be left alone.

Most of the time, anyway. Except when it comes to Rachel Berry. She has no idea why. She never even liked the girl before. Maybe it's because she knows she's hurting herself. Well, she doesn't know. She has a hunch, but it's not like it's inconspicuous. Quinn heard Rachel throwing up. Something is obviously going on.

But why does she care? What is it about Rachel that pulls her out of the water, wake up, and actually do something?

Maybe it's because she remembers what it's like. She remembers weighing herself constantly, having a tantrum if she gained a pound. She remembers constant dieting and facing humiliation at Cheerios practice. She remembers feeling disgusting every time she looked in the mirror, dissecting every part of her. She remembers the pangs of a growling stomach, and the way it felt to blackout and fall to the floor. Waking up to worried eyes, and having to say _nothingswrong, everythingsfine, thanksforasking, I'mnothungry._

She wants to help her, help _someone_, before it's too late. The same way it's too late for her.

She stands up from the swings, walking over to the colored metal structure. She climbs the steps to the bridge, leaning over and staring at the wood-chip ground.

Will Beth ever throw up like Rachel or starve like she used to?

Will she ever be left alone on a playground to drown in her thoughts?

Will she ever forgive her?

… will _anyone_ ever forgive her?

Everyday, Quinn wishes she could step back in time and stop herself. She never would've invited Puck over. She would've ignored those two extra pounds on the scale and eaten a burger instead of her usual salad. She would've called Finn and told him she loved him. She would've thought about what the hell she was doing and said no.

She would've had sex with someone she really loved, when she was completely sure, instead of with someone she would only come to love in the future, someone who didn't seem to love her now.

What if Noah never loves her like he says he does? What if no one ever loves her, not her parents or any boys or her daughter?

No, not her daughter. _Daughter_ doesn't describe it correctly. A daughter is someone who is _yours_. Beth isn't hers. She is someone else's.

Having a child makes her a mother, not a mom. She is not the mother of a daughter. Right now, all she is, is a vessel for a thing. A child she doesn't know and will never know. All because she chose the wrong choice, and now she's doomed to this hell.

Quinn crosses the bridge and climbs to the highest slide. It twists three times before it reaches the bottom. She wishes she could enjoy playgrounds like she used to. That she could slide down slides and not think about what could have been.

She rolls up her sleeves, revealing words. _Idiot, slut, pathetic, whore, stupid, dumbass. _She grips the handlebars, slowly sitting down to the entrance of the slide. The moonlight shines of the plastic, illuminating her way down.

Quinn used to wish she could slide all the time. She wanted to slide so fast, it was like she was flying, with someone there to catch her at the bottom.

Now she still wishes for that freedom, that innocence, that safety. It's just in a different form. Instead of being laced with childhood fairytales, it is tinged with grime. With the sick blood of reality, with the fact that she's just another statistic. Another girl gone wrong.

She closes her eyes and pushes off. Quinn zooms down the slide, and in an instant she finds herself sitting at the bottom.

If only her fall from grace had been so effortless.

Slowly, she stands up, hands resting on her abdomen. On the horizon, there is a light gray tinge to the sky. It's probably around four am. People will be waking up soon.

She rolls down her sleeves and slips quietly inside the house that is not her home. Upstairs in the bathroom she lets her dread take hold of her and swallows two sleeping pills. Crawling back into bed, she waits for the drugs to do their job. There's no way she's going to school today.


	8. Tina II

_I'm back from vacation and itching to write! So here's Tina for you, enjoy!_

* * *

Wreckage

_Tina_

.

"I felt as if I were both living my life and watching my life simultaneously, longing for access and yet fearing the thing that I longed for."

- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

.

Alarm clocks make her tired. Whenever the machine goes off at 5:30, Tina hits it hard enough to break and oversleeps. She used to put it across the room so she'd have to get up to turn it off, but then she just forgot in her grogginess and fell out of bed (she has quite a leap from her bed to the floor, especially when it's unexpected). Now she's mostly given up. She's up when she's up, hopefully in time to apply her eyeliner.

Because of her sleeping habits, she lays out her clothes the night before. Black tank top with a long sleeve mesh top underneath, long black skirt with black tights and black boots. She adds her bracelets, black armwarmers, and necklaces, sticks a few clips in her orange streaked hair, and she's ready to go. On the outside, anyway.

Inside, she'll never be ready. She doesn't want to go out, or outside, or anywhere. She'd rather stay at home in her room, curled up with a good book. Going to school (or the grocery store, or her front yard) makes her _anxious_. Like something bad is going to happen, or people are staring at her, hiding in the bushes. It doesn't matter. She gets tired of being on constant alert, watching for a hair out of place. She'd rather be sleeping.

Tina sits in the passenger seat as her mother drives her to school, chatting about something she isn't focusing on. She doesn't like driving, either. She's afraid the people behind her will get angry at her for going too slow. Her parents gave up on forcing her to get her permit long ago. They gave up on a lot of things once she started dyeing her hair and wearing black and quit talking to them. All that matters is she keeps her grades up, and she does, so they don't feel like they need to push.

They don't. She likes being left alone. Sometimes, she wonders if she likes it too much.

At school she stands at her locker, searching for her biology book, wondering why she can't stay organized, hoping no one's looking at her. It feels like they are. It _always_ feels like someone's staring, even if there's no one in the room. It gets annoying; just another reason why she'd rather be alone.

"Hey, Tina," she turns to see Artie roll up behind her, clad in his usual sweater-vest.

She closes her locker, forcing a smile, "Hi Artie."

"Did you finish the math homework? I was having some trouble towards the end."

"Well, you're way smarter than me, so of course _I_ had problems."

"Maybe we can go over it at lunch?"

"Sure," they have math together sixth period. Tina sits in back, doodling in the margins of her notes. Artie sits in front by the door because of his wheelchair.

"Okay, well I'll see you later."

She watches him wheel away until he turns the corner. Since she told him her stutter wasn't real, they haven't talked about it. It was assumed everything was forgiven when he started sitting next to her at glee practice and talking to her at lunch. She's glad he's talking to her again and she doesn't have to pretend, but at the same time she wishes he could understand.

He got mad because he thought he'd actually found someone who knew what it was like to be different; Tina gets that. But she _is_ different. She feels completely closed off from the world and can't walk away from it. But Artie would never understand that. He would never see that, because she doesn't tell him. She _can't_ tell him; that's part of the problem. No one will ever know that a seemingly harmless personality trait is more of a personal hell than they realize.

She enters her first period biology classroom quickly, taking her seat near the middle of the room. Notebook perched in the middle of the desk, messenger bag underneath her chair, feet resting on her textbook. Her hands are in her lap picking at her nail polish, eyes downcast. She has a friend in this class. Mercedes, but they're only friends because of glee club. It helps if she knows people, but she doesn't know a lot of people. More often than not, she ends up alone, self esteem shot to shreds.

"Hey girlie," Mercedes grins as she puts her books on her desk, two rows up and three desks to the right of Tina's. The distant is fairly short, "What's up?"

"Hi Mercedes," she tries to smile. If someone else is there, someone else she is almost comfortable with, life is a little bit easier. She is able to feel like she belongs, if only a miniscule amount. She doesn't _deserve_ to belong anywhere…

It's when she's completely alone in a sea of people where things get messy. Especially loud people, with glittering teeth and hyena laughter who seem dangerously high on life. She doesn't understand them or how they can be so ridiculously happy all the time. Not that she isn't happy. She's not depressed, either. A possible word is _content_, but even that doesn't fit quite right. Whatever it is, it apparently doesn't match the rest of the world. She simply doesn't express herself like other people. Loud noises scare her. She'd rather sit in comfortable silence, lost in her thoughts.

The bell rings, and the teacher arrives momentarily. Mercedes takes her seat. The rest of the students file in until the classroom is full. Mrs. Montgomery turns on her projector and begins discussing last night's cell anatomy homework. Tina begins doodling little cell armies battling germs at the bottom of her worksheet. It isn't exactly polite, but at least she doesn't blatantly (and constantly) text like the rest of her classmates.

"So, number fourteen. Anyone have an answer? How about you, Tina?"

She drops her pencil, slowly looking up. _Everyone is going to look at her_. She can feel her body beginning to sweat, hands trembling. Her throat is closing up. Someone just stuffed cotton balls into her mouth, cutting off her air supply.

_Mitochondria. The answer is mitochondria._

Silence. Utter silence, and everyone is looking and Mrs. Montgomery's brows are staring to crinkle together like she's worried, like oh look at this mute child in my room, what possibly could be wrong, and it feels like the air isn't going deep enough into her chest and can the rest of them hear her heart-?

She shakes her head no.

"Okay. How about you, Kevin?"

She knew the answer. She just couldn't say it. _If she said it they'd all look at her and then what if she got it wrong…_

"Uh… mitochondria?"

"Yes. Now, number fifteen…"

She should've said it. She should've of just _said it_ and everything would've been fine. _Stupid, stupid, idiot. _Now everyone thinks she's dumb because she didn't say anything, just stared and shook her head. _Idiot_. Her face is burning up.

This happens a lot. It's another uncomfortable fact of life she's simply incorporated in with everything else. This is her version of normal, yet it is the biggest roadblock of her day, hour, minute.

She sits with her head down for the rest of class. Mrs. Montgomery doesn't call on her again, something she is thankful for. If only she was homeschooled. Better yet, if only she didn't have to go to school. If only she could open her mouth like the rest of the world…

The bell rings and everyone slowly files out. She hopes no one notices her sitting idly, falling behind. As she's picking up her books from underneath her, she feels a presence and looks up to see Mercedes waiting for her.

"Hey. Walk with you to Spanish?"

"I… um, sure," she awkwardly stays two steps ahead until they're out the door, Mercedes falling in line next to her.

"So what's up with you not talking?"

Tina never expected people to notice.

"Um… well, I never really say much, so…"

"Yeah, but I bet you knew the answer to that. It wasn't so hard. Are you okay?"

Most people don't care enough to bother. At least, that's the way it seems. Still, she'd never tell the truth. For some reason, telling the truth has never been an option. It takes too much explaining. Lying is easier.

"I'm fine."

Her face twists into something like concern, but Tina is already backing up.

"Well, if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me."

"Yeah, thanks."

And she's smiling and turning on her heel and walking away. It's simple. Routine. Automatic.

Life on autopilot is better than navigating it herself. Getting it wrong. Discouraging prying eyes keeps her safe. Though… she's still trying to figure out what she's hiding from.

* * *

_So I found a way to get Mercedes in there! Don't worry, they'll be more from her in the future, I promise._

_But I need a bit of feedback from all of you. I'm not really sure what to do with Tina at this point. As I'm sure a lot of you have noticed, her story pales a bit compared to the rest of the girls and that needs to be fixed! Although anxiety is serious and something a lot of people deal with (including myself, which makes this so hard to write), I feel like it's a bit boring. I've been toying with having her self harm, but that just seems cliche. You know, she's the goth girl so so obviously cuts herself! Yeah, stereotypes are stupid. So any suggestions are welcome!_

_Thanks for the reviews! You guys always brighten my day!_


	9. Brittany II

_Hello all you wonderful people! I'm trying very hard to be in a good mood right now, but well... eh. I was browsing Glee Forums fanfiction, and someone copied this story! Only the Rachel parts, and only Ch 1 (so far), but... yeah. I'm a bit , to say the least. But I'll get over it. (If you wanna see it, because if I was you I would totally want to see it (or maybe I'm just nosey...) here it is: . you may be a bit shocked. I was)_

_But it makes me realize how much I love and appriciate all of YOU for reviewing and giving me feedback! (well, not whoever copied this, because I know you must be on here at least once or twice... but I'll come to forgive you eventually) Thanks for reading what I write and I love all of you!_

_Now on to Brittany, who I might love _more_ than all of you... It ended up being longer than the other chapters because I got in a couple ideas I've been storing since day one. I had a hard time making her "cute-stupid" because of the angst, and she's beginning to just be more... sad. Sorry about that, but I hope you like it anyway!_

_Shatter_

_Brittany_

.

"Hungryhungry battles starvestarve back and forth across the battlefield of my mind. Everything hurts."

Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson

.

Brittany is lost. Well, not really lost. She knows where she is. But if she was a metaphorical person (which she isn't, because like recipes, metaphors confuse her), she would be metaphorically lost.

She's walking down the hallway to her locker alone, and that's what gets her lost. She hates being alone. It's easier to breathe with another person next to her, especially Santana. When another person's there, she can stop thinking about food. Her mouth stops watering because she's absolutely starving and-

No. No. Don't go there. She snaps her gum as she reaches her locker, and then stops. She can't remember her combination. Usually Santana helps her, but Santana skipped last period to make out with Puck before Cheerios practice. She spins the lock a few times for good measure, landing on her goal weights for luck (95, 82, and then she hits 0 by accident but that's okay), but nothing happens. Brittany will never be able to get into her locker now.

This is why Santana shouldn't leave her. But… she does have her own life. Even though they're best friends, well… maybe Brittany should learn to do a few things for herself.

But she does do things by herself. She looses weight _all by herself_ with no one to help her, and she's very proud of that fact. Santana diets too, but not as much as she does. She was never as dedicated. That's okay. Brittany still loves her. It's not like Santana really _needs_ to loose weight anyway. She's pretty the way she is.

Besides, Santana probably doesn't have voices in her head telling her she's bad. Brittany never told anyone about them because she knows they'll think she's crazy. Maybe she _is_ crazy, but she has to listen to the voices. They tell her she's ugly and show her how to fix it. It's a good thing, really. They're helping her become a better person. A _thinner_, _prettier_, _better_ person.

She sighs and decides to abandon her locker for now. She'll just bring her books home with her. Maybe she'll even get some of her homework done without Santana's help, although that's doubtful.

She leaves her backpack in the locker room and heads out to the football field. It's not cheering season, but Miss Sylvester says they need to stay in top condition if they want to win Nationals. If anything, Brittany wants to be a winner. Winners get noticed. Winners are the best. If she's the best, she'll be better.

The best people are skinny. She isn't sure why that is, but they are, and if she looses weight she'll be the best. The best at _what _doesn't really matter. She just wants to feel important for once in her life.

She sees Santana running towards her, upside down from her stretching position. As she turns herself around again her best friend joins her, immediately sitting down in a split to stretch.

"Hey, B."

"Where were you, San? I couldn't get into my locker," she frowns a little while touching her toes. The vertebrae in her back are clinking together like marbles. Her joints hurt. They have for a while now, no matter how much she loosens up.

"I'm really, really sorry sweetie. I lost track of time, you know," the look on her face is sincere. She's never had a hard time forgiving Santana. She never will. Still, she's been really confused lately, more than normal, and it would help to have someone around. Her headaches have only gotten worse, which usually coincide with her growling stomach, but that doesn't mean anything. Besides, it's not like she really feels hungry anymore. She's good at ignoring it, at chewing gum, at drinking water or coffee to make her body obey. If it's really bad, she just blasts her music and jumps up and down around her room until she can't see straight.

"It's okay. I'll just bring it home," she smiles.

"I'll let you copy my history homework," Santana grins, reaching over to place her leg on Brittany's shoulder, "Help me stretch?"

Immediately, she recoils, backing away so Santana doesn't have a chance to touch her, "Um, no, sorry. I promised Amanda I'd help her with the chorography before Miss Sylvester gets here."

A look of confusion passes over Santana's face. Brittany just stares. She can't let Santana touch her anymore. Last time she touched her, she commented on how she was too boney. If she gets worried, she'll make her eat more.

As much as Brittany loves Santana, she will not eat for her. That's something that goes beyond love. It's untouchable.

"Well, okay…" she says uneasily as Brittany heads over to her fellow cheerleader, "Homework after practice?"

"Yeah, sure. Later," she smiles. She's realized lately that smiling is really, really easy to fake.

"Okay you undeserving miscreants," Miss Sylvester shouts into the megaphone as she enters the field, "Let's see what you've got!"

Practice passes without a hitch. She gets a little dizzy, but it passes and no one notices. At least, she doesn't think so. Two hours later, Miss Sylvester calls her to the sidelines, keeping her from the locker room. As much as she is terrified of her coach, she also sees it's all just an act. Maybe she could be a nice person if more people were nice to her. Brittany's realized a lot of people are like that. Santana's like that, too, that's why no one knows the Santana she knows. They don't give her a chance.

"Listen, B, we both know you're not the sharpest unicorn in wonderland, but I think you're smart enough to know what's going on."

"… I'm a unicorn?" she asks, confused. Don't unicorns look like horses and eat rainbows? This is usually what happens when Miss Sylvester speaks. Maybe it's a metaphor. But what's a metaphor? She's spent the past year in English class flirting with Jason Holmes.

"I'm well aware that the world thinks I'm cold and heartless, and perhaps I am, but deep down I care about my girls. Maybe it's only because they're my ticket to the world record of consecutive national cheerleading championship wins, but I care nonetheless."

Her mind is blank. Why do people always have to use such big words and long sentences? Santana is waiting for her.

"Miss Sylvester, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"For the past month, your weight's been dropping. To be a cheerleader, you must be in perfect physical condition, and yes, that often requires me instilling eating habits in you that the Department of Health and Human Services finds _'appalling_.' Still, I never meant to harm any of you… at least, not in the long term, because let's face it: I need you."

"… is that like a department store for healthy people?"

Sue Sylvester straightens her gaze, eyes locking onto the disheveled girl, "Have you been eating regularly, Brittany? I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but frankly, you're looking a little too thin."

She can't comprehend this. Since when is there such a thing as being "too thin?"

Brittany isn't smart, but she knows when to lie.

"I'm fine."

"You look sick. You know what happens to Cheerios who get sick?"

"You crush them like you crushed Quinn?"

"Exactly. Point is, take care of yourself, B. You're dismissed."

Brittany leaves, the warning fresh in her mind, but she doesn't understand. Everything she's doing… is only to take care of herself. Why doesn't anyone understand that? If she's lighter, she'll fly higher in the air. Miss Sylvester should be _happy_.

She shakes her head as she gets her bag and books from the locker room, hoping to shake away another dizzy spell as she enters the parking lot and unlocks her car. At first, her parents were afraid to let her drive. She was a little afraid herself, but surprisingly, driving comes easy to her. Maybe she doesn't know the technical term of things (her mother always gets mad at her for calling her blinkers "arrow men," but they've helped her finally remember her lefts and rights), but at least she can do something right like everyone else.

Santana is waiting in her own car a few spaces down. She rolls down her window as Brittany places her books in the backseat, "What did Miss Sylvester want?"

"Nothing important. Just some chorography stuff."

Lying, like smiling, is also ridiculously easy.

"Did she hurt you?" Santana's eyes darken. She always makes her feel protected, if not a little frightened. Santana doesn't like it when she gets hurt. Brittany doesn't like it when Santana gets hurt, either.

"No. I'm fine. I'll see you at my house okay?"

"Okay, B."

…

Three hours later Santana has to go home, even though Brittany still doesn't understand how to find an area of a triangle for geometry class. She copied most of her friend's homework, except for the biology worksheet. Brittany understands that, because a cell is like a little city. The nucleus is like the President's house, where all the important stuff is. The mitochondria is where everyone goes to eat. The cytoplasm is the road that holds everyone together.

She explains this all to Santana in detail, and the girl just laughs at her and says that's a _metaphor_. She just created one big metaphor all by herself.

Oh. So _that's_ what a metaphor is. Saying something when you mean something else (which is still confusing, but she just made one!). Brittany feels proud of herself, and squeals and hugs Santana like she always does when she understands something.

This is why life is better when Santana is around. She makes the world _clear _for her. So, so clear.

Santana leaves, but not without kissing her on the cheek. Brittany wishes she would kiss her on the mouth, but she knows better than to ask. It has to just happen. If she brings it up, Santana shuts down with a scared look in her eye, suddenly worried about curfew. That's the way it's always been.

"Brittany! Brittany!" her seven year old little sister Julia rushes in, a Barbie doll under her arm, "Mommy says it's time for dinner!"

Ugh. She _hates_ mealtimes.

"I'll be down in a second."

She prepares for this. Every day, she prepares for this. If she knew better, she'd say it was a bit… obsessive. And wrong. Very wrong. But all she knows is that this is what she's supposed to do. This will change things.

She changes out of her cheerleading uniform and pulls on a sweatshirt over her tank top, taking the stairs two at a time. There aren't any smells wafting up the stairwell, which is good. That always makes it harder.

Brittany enters the kitchen and her eyes lock on the canister of whipped cream. It's sitting there, just waiting and _oh God wouldn't it be so good to have that sugar melting in your mouth-_

Stop. Breathe. She blinks her eyes furiously, willing the thoughts away. _Empty calories like that will only destroy you._

"Hi, honey," her mother smiles, bowl of strawberries in hand, still dressed in her work clothes, "I had a late lunch meeting at work, so we're just having dessert. Strawberry shortcake, unless you want to make yourself something else?"

In all honesty, she probably didn't have a lunch meeting. If she did, she didn't eat it. Her mother's dedication to diet and exercise could be compared to Rachel's dedication to becoming a star, or Miss Sylvester's drive to be the best. She wishes _she_ could be dedicated like that.

She watches as Julia grabs the whipped cream and sprays a mountain on top of her biscuit and strawberries, and has to stop her mouth from watering. She waits for her to leave the kitchen before she gets a bowl from the cupboard.

She takes six strawberries because they fit inside the dish perfectly, rearranging them in a circle with their points sticking outward. Then inward. She doesn't know how many calories strawberries have because it all depends on the grams and cups and if they're sweetened or unsweetened… there are too many terms to keep track of and it makes her head hurt, so she just guesses. Brittany's trying to stay under 500 calories a day, but it's hard when she's not very good at math or remembering anything. She tries to write it down and then add it all up with a calculator, but sometimes she doesn't have anything to write with, and when she finally finds a pen she can't remember how much she ate.

This is why just not eating anything is easier.

She sits down at the table. Her father and sister are the only ones eating shortcake. Her mother has sliced strawberries in her bowl, twirling them around with her fork.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, sweetie?" she asks, smiling. If Brittany knew what a _hypocrite_ was, she'd be tempted to shout the word very loudly. Since she doesn't, she can only sit and wish her family was like everyone else who ate on the go or in front of the TV.

She smiles. Hard. At least no one's paying much attention. Her father doesn't get suspicious, since this is the way it's always been. Although he doesn't agree with the way Brittany is following in her mother's footsteps, it just means there's more shortcake for him, and that's perfectly fine. Her little sister is oblivious, sticking whole berries into her mouth.

"Yeah," she picks up her fork and slices each berry into fourths, and then each forth in half. She waits for her mother to stop staring at her before she spears an eighth of a strawberry and brings it to her lips.

This won't hurt. She won't blow up from a few pieces of fruit. But after the fruit, who says it won't lead to eating all the whipped cream and leftover pasta and chicken and bread-

She knows it's the little things that lead to being out of control. As long as she stays out of the kitchen, she'll be fine. Hopefully.

Brittany manages to finish three quarters of what's on her plate. When she leaves, she dumps the contents of her bowl into the trashcan. Then she pulls what she hid in her napkin from her sweatshirt sleeve and tosses it into the bin. She rinses and sticks the plate in the dishwasher, washing the red juice off her hands. Then she quietly slips upstairs into her room, lies on the floor, and begins with crunches.

In reality, she probably only ate one or two strawberries. In whatever world she's living in, she feels like a pig.

Empty is good. She isn't empty anymore, and therefore she is a disappointment/disgrace/disgusting/fat/loser. Since she hates puking and laxatives are a last resort, the only way is to exercise and starve for the rest of the night. Maybe all day tomorrow, too. She deserves to be punished.

* * *

_Awww Brittany... I hope you liked it! And Sue was in it! I was terrified to write her, because I've seen a lot of people do it wrong. I hope it was decent enough. Not quite sure when Santana's will be up, as I haven't written it... She's one of my favorites, but she's also a bit daunting to tackle. I'll get it done soon!_


	10. Santana II

_Hey everybody! This was supposed to show up way sooner... but Santana is hard (not to mention I've been distracted by some monster one-shots I want to have up soon). Anyway, here it is. Hopefully the next one won't take as long... enjoy!_

* * *

Downfall

_Santana_

_._

"I wanted to feel used. Or at least feel useful."

Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

.

She is not a good girl. Not that anyone would accuse her of that, but she likes to get the point across nice and clear. Exhibit A: skipping last period to make out with Noah Puckerman in a janitor's closet.

They do this a lot, but she assumes the excitement hasn't worn off for him since he keeps coming back, even though he claims Quinn is now his one true love or some shit like that. Even if he thinks that, she doubts Quinn's buying, since he's doing a crappy job of showing it, not to mention she's been walking around like someone stole her puppy. Then again, if Santana was pregnant, maybe she'd be depressed too. No, scratch that. She wouldn't be depressed because her father would ring her neck. At least Quinn's parents only kicked her out. She _wishes_ her father would kick her out.

But never mind him. Thinking about him ruins her hook up mood.

(_If the universe really hates you, Papa will find a way to keep you there forever…)_

Her hands are wrapped around Puck's neck as she presses herself into him. It's not a big deal as long as she's in control. They got the pattern down ages ago, and now it's simple. They fool around, have sex, and are done with it. It's nothing more than a hookup, even though all the stupid teen magazines her little sister reads say friends with benefits are never just that. Screw that. Santana's too good to _care_.

Puck breaks their contact suddenly, hands sliding out from underneath her top. Last period's probably almost over anyway. If she's late, Brittany will freak-

"I love Quinn now," he says suddenly, and a wave of emotions washes over her before she pushes it away.

(_confusion – he can love someone, can anyone love someone? – anger – why the hell should she care, she doesn't like him – fear – does this mean he'll leave her? – Questions and then nothing)_

She laughs – can't help it. Since when does he think he knows the first thing about love? (_Since when do _you _know the first thing about any damn thing-)_

"So?"

"So… I don't know. You should just know."

"Whatever, Puckerman. That mean you don't want to sleep with me anymore? You know Fabray won't put out, especially since you already knocked her up."

He doesn't say anything. Of course he doesn't, because he knows she's right and won't admit it. She's always right, especially when it comes to these kinds of things.

She digs her compact out of her bag and fixes her ponytail, "Anyway, I'm going to be late for practice. Hook up this weekend?"

"I'm… not sure yet. I'll text you?"

She grins and leaves him there (because Santana Lopez does _not_ get walked out on), backpack slung over her shoulder. He'll call. He always does. It doesn't matter how _in love_ that boy thinks he is. He likes to have sex too much, and Quinn won't give it to him. She will. (_Sometimes she envies Quinn for the fact that she has the option to keep her legs closed and Puck isn't an ass enough to force them open-)_

But this is control, right here. It doesn't matter. The cards have been dealt a long time ago and she makes the choices she has to. No. Big. Fucking. Deal.

(_Except for little girls in denial, but maybe that story's for a later day)_

She runs out onto the football field, meeting a distraught Brittany. She feels bad about the locker thing, but what is she supposed to do? She can't be there for her twenty-four seven, as much as she'd like to.

Of course she apologizes, but Britt's acting jumpy, and Santana can only wonder as her friend runs off, legs looking shockingly thin underneath her cheerleading skirt.

When did that happen? Has she really been that distracted lately? When was the last time she even spent time with Brittany (real time, cuddling and gossiping about cute boys, and _no_, Santana would never admit to _cuddling_ in any other circumstance)? Maybe she should pay attention more, spend the weekend with her instead… (she likes hooking up with Brittany better anyway)

(_The days and nights always blend together when Papa's around, and what's a distraction if-)_

Practice goes by quickly and she waits for Brittany in the parking lot. They go back to her house and her friend copies most of her homework, but Santana doesn't care. Then Brittany gets very excited about metaphors and biology and she can't help but laugh, and it feels nice to laugh this much. Brittany always manages to bring out the best in her.

Of course, then she realizes what time it is. She has to be home before Papa gets home from work or life gets ugly. _Real ugly_.

So she says goodbye to Brittany even though she wishes she didn't have to, kissing her on the cheek. Her face lights up at that, but darkens again as Santana's headed out the door and her sister mentions dinnertime. She doesn't know what to make of that, exactly, so she gets in her car and drives home. They're all concerned about their weight. They're _Cheerios_, for christ's sake, it's practically written in the contract. Though she does remember the things Brittany told her… the _starving_, _biting hunger_… she makes a mental note to mention it someday.

She pulls into her driveway too fast, relieved once she sees Papa isn't home yet. She grabs her schoolbooks and enters the house. Her mother looks up over the stove, changed from her work uniform into an old dress.

"You're late, Santana," she says, voice thick with her Columbian accent, stirring the sizzling contents in the frying pan.

"I know, Mama, and I'm sorry. At least he's not home yet."

"You got lucky," she grunts, "You'd better change quickly."

Yes. Papa doesn't like her cheerleading uniform.

She drops her books on her bed and is pulling off her shirt when Angelita appears in the doorway, wearing one of her good shirts and a skirt, along with _her_ necklace.

"Good thing Papa's late too, or you would've been in _trouble_," she sings, flopping down on Santana's bed.

"Yeah, and so would you," she says coldly, pulling a nice shirt over her head and looking for her long skirt, "And take _off_ my necklace."

"But I like it," Angelita whines, and jumps out of the way as Santana lunges for her, "Maybe if you said _please_-"

"Okay. _Please_ give me back my necklace, you _estupido imbecil nina._"

(_She'll never admit it, but these are her favorite moments…_)

"That is _not_ polite," Angelita gasps as her older sister yanks at the chain around her neck, shouting at the top of her lungs "Mama! Santana is-"

They both freeze as they hear the crunching of tires through the open window, breaking apart as Angelita unclasps the necklace and shoves it into Santana's hands. She fastens it around her own neck as the front door slams shut.

(_All the best moments are ruined when he comes home_)

She fixes her hair in the mirror, pulling it out of its ponytail and quickly running a brush through. Angelita moves to step into the hallway, but she cuts in front of her.

After all, this is why she's still here. If it wasn't for her sister, she would've run away years ago.

Santana enters the kitchen, Angel shuffling behind. Papa might as well be holding a loaded gun.

Good thing she's used to taking bullets.

"Santana, mix me a drink," he's still dressed in his work clothes, covered in a layer of dust. His cold, fixed stare never ceases to frighten her, not that she'd let it show. She can only imagine what he's thinking, but she's glad she doesn't know. (_Could his drunk thoughts and sober thoughts be completely different personalities? Is there some kind of invisible line broken within the darkness of whiskey?_) Answers are better left unsaid.

She silently fills a glass with ice cubes and reaches for the Crown Royal in the bottom cabinet, filling it three fourths of the way and topping off the glass with water. Angelita puts a plate of food in front of Papa, still steaming from the pan. She gives him his drink and they get their food, the four of them sitting around the table. It's silent until he opens his mouth.

"Did you get your paycheck today?"

Mama stiffens, "It's on the counter."

"Did you cash it?"

"No. The bank was closed by the time I got out."

He doesn't say anything. He only finishes his drink. Santana gets up to mix him another, like always.

"Careful, Angelita. Keep eating like that, and you'll never get a boyfriend. Boys don't like fat girls."

She turns around quickly, glaring at Papa. Mama won't look at her. Angel has put down her fork, daintily sipping from her water glass.

"You should ask your sister for advice," his gaze turns to her, and she can almost feel ice chilling her veins, "She has no problem staying in shape."

She wants to _kill him. _What makes him think he can say those things to her? As if being twelve isn't hard enough. As if _living in this house_ without his comments isn't hard enough. This is what he does. He enjoys alienating them, not to mention he seems to have some kind of sick need to abuse everyone in his life. He comes to bed with her at night, he hits Mama, and he insults all of them. Why does he have to hurt _all of them_? Can't he just leave Angel alone? Would that be so much to ask? (_Well yes, yes it would_-)

She puts the glass down in front of him and sits back in her seat, smiling, "It's fine, Angel. You're still growing, so you don't need to worry about it."

This isn't what he wants to hear, but frankly, she doesn't care. _This_ is where she has her say. Maybe she'll pay for it later, but it's worth it. (_It's her job to stand up for her. It's the only reason she's here)_

Angel smiles and picks her fork back up. Papa scowls, "And how was _your_ day, Santana?"

"Fine."

"Well that's wonderful. Do you want to know how _my _day was?"

(_No_)

He takes another gulp of whiskey and continues, "I worked hard all day long to feed your greedy mouth. I didn't bust my ass for you so I could come home and be _disrespected_."

"I'm sorry, Papa."

"You're finished eating now. Go finish your schoolwork."

She stands up, leaving her plate on the table. Behind her, Mama swiftly stands up to clear it, always about pleasing him. Not that she can really blame her. The more she pleases him, the better chance she has of remaining unbeaten.

Santana closes the door to her room and sits down on her bed, staring at her face in the mirror, wondering how it would look decorated with bruises.

(_Would it be easier, to have bruises where everyone could see?_)

Maybe. Probably. (_Then everyone would really know how screwed up this family is and-_)

She changes into her pajamas and shuts off the light, trying to sleep before nightfall. Hopefully he won't be drunk enough to visit tonight (or too drunk). It doesn't make a difference. She won't sleep much regardless.


	11. Rachel III

_Sorry for the wait! I'm back in school, so I don't have as much time to write._

_Also, this hasn't been spellchecked because I want to get it out to you as soon as possible. I apologize in advanced for any mistakes. Enjoy!_

* * *

Subversion

_Rachel_

_._

"If I sat very still and thought: Not me – not me – not me over and over, I could retrieve the feeling of being two girls, staring at each other through the glass of the mirror."

- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

.

Rachel wakes up feeling sick, but that's nothing new. It'd be strange if she didn't know exactly _why_, but of course she knows. It's because she threw up last night. She doesn't like to do it more than once a day, but she ate two pieces of her daddy's birthday cake and couldn't just _leave it_ there. That would be… impossible. Out of the question.

She'll skip breakfast this morning. That ought to fix _something. _At least teach her a lesson. She needs to be more careful. Last night her fathers noticed she took a little while in the bathroom. That coupled with Quinn's suspicion is enough to make her paranoid as hell.

As long as no one finds out, everything will be fine.

She happily avoids the kitchen as she gets ready for the day, looking forward to a relaxing weekend. Both of her fathers are lawyers, and their cases take them out of the house most days until nightfall. It doesn't bother her. If they were around, they'd make her eat. She doesn't like eating in front of people, doesn't like eating much _at all-_

With no one to bother her, she isn't exactly sure what she'll do. Lie around and watch TV probably. Finish her end of the year term paper that's due on Monday and the rest of her homework. Go for a run. Try practicing her scales without her throat choking up (_again_).

Except none of these things is what she really wants to do. All she wants to do _is eat_.

And eat and eat until she can't anymore.

That's why temptation is dangerous. Food is dangerous. The kitchen is dangerous. She has no control over herself.

Why?

As she told Puck once before, long ago: she wants everything too much. Therefore, she must have an extreme drive to get her wants, even if they are unattainable.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate ways to fix her mistakes.

_As long as no one finds out, everything will be fine. _They'd take it away. That's why she should enjoy these moments, alone.

So she begins her morning ritual, entering the bathroom and staring at herself in the mirror. She analyzes her face, spending what seems like hours trying to find some sort of expression that looks halfway decent and simultaneously hides the truth. It never really works. She ends up looking stupid anyway, but she's used to it. It's the thought that counts.

Then comes the worst part.

Sometimes, she wonders what people would think if they could see her stepping on the scale. The way she looks away and prays for lower numbers, dreading the truth. How she thinks her face breaks for _just a second_ when she sees the ugliness glaring back at her, but then she squeezes her eyes shut tight and backs away, and when her eyes open again everything's fine, because with an absence of weight the scale reads "0.00."

If only everything could be fixed by blinking. Wishing. Praying. Life would be so much easier…

_And she could eat whatever she wanted all the time with no one or nothing to…_

She'll eat at _later_. At least not until after noontime. Everything will be fine as long as she stays _away from the kitchen_.

Rachel heads back upstairs to get ready to go jogging, since getting out of the house seems like a good solution. She'll do her five mile loop, and after that she'll get on the elliptical for a while. After that she can finish all her homework, and maybe then it will be time to eat.

As she's pulling a loose t-shirt over her head, her cell phone starts buzzing with an incoming text message. She ties her sneakers and begins bouncing down the stairs and out the front door before she reads the message. It's from Finn.

_Are we still on for this afternoon?_

She keeps a steady pace, wondering what he's talking about, typing in a reply at a slow jog. Once she sends the message she tries sprinting. What a good idea. She'll sprint while waiting for his messages and jog when replying. That's got to burn more calories.

_We were going to study today. You were gonna help me with my math._

Oh. Well, she has been forgetting things lately.

_Sorry I totally spaced (: What time are you coming again?_

Rachel can't deny that ruins her plans for the day. It changes her entire work schedule, not to mention her eating schedule. She'll have to eat something before he arrives, or after he leaves, but what if she can't make it that long? He can't catch her throwing up. He'd probably tell Quinn, and she'd tell some responsible adult and they'd tell her fathers and then she'd be sent to some sort of crazy home. This will not do.

_I'll see you around 2. Thanks._

She sprints faster. _What if she can't throw up. What if she has to eat and he's right there and everything is ruined and-_

Her footfalls become numb to the rest of her body. She's floating on air, running, running, running. It's not hard anymore. As long as she's able to slip away mentally, the physical aspect becomes simple. Not to mention it's worth it if she wants to loose weight.

She has to take opportunity of her motivation or it will pass without notice. Many times she finds herself too tired to exercise even though she knows she should. Sometimes (most of the time) she'd rather just eat and get rid of it. That's successful. Exercising takes longer and it doesn't make her feel as good.

She should keep running until it's time for Finn to come over, and then she can shower and maybe eat with him. That ought to be _safe_… but she doesn't like eating in front of other people. They'll think… well, she doesn't know what they'll think exactly, but they'll probably think she's a pig. It's better to do everything alone; that way no one sees your faults. It's why she doesn't like to get close to people anymore. Not even her own mother.

She has to admit, she's always been curious about her birth mother. Of course, she wanted too much from it, and the whole ordeal backfired in her face just like everything else. Just like having a real superstar boyfriend named Jesse St. James who was only toying with her and smashed eggs against her forehead (she finds it quite sick that she was so hungry that day, she actually contemplated licking the raw yolk from her lips). Everyone is bound to leave in the end.

It's simple. Obviously, Shelby didn't want her. She didn't want to deal with her. She was too old, too stupid, too screwed up, too fat, _too much_. And yet she'll never be enough for her, maybe not enough for anyone.

But somehow, she's relieved. Maybe it's stereotypical, but Rachel feels that a mother would notice her daughter's eating habits better than her fathers. Maybe she's paranoid (well, she _is_), but she already feels Shelby noticed something during the short time they spent together. Is it that obvious? Then why doesn't anyone else notice? Do only strangers see it? At least strangers are less likely to stop her.

Her own mother is a _stranger. _She was here and now she isn't. It's jarring and it's a bit dramatic and pathetic and Lifetime movie worthy. Perhaps that's why she should feel like it isn't such a big deal, like she really understands that it's better this way even though she doesn't have a freaking clue. She's never really sure what she's supposed to feel anymore, anyway. She doesn't want to feel _anything_.

Her footsteps slow as she reaches her front yard, walking up and down the driveway five times before heading inside, trickles of sweat sliding down her face and sticking to her clothes. She heads straight for the shower, keeping the water at a lukewarm temperature to cool her off.

It's 12:15. She tries to take longer than usual and happily avoids looking at herself in the foggy mirror. She hates looking at her full body reflection. It only makes her feel worse. Usually she can stomach looking at her face, if only to make sure she doesn't look too awful. It's harder looking at her entire body clothed, but naked is even worse. Impossible.

She gets dressed and blow dries her hair, spending far too much time worrying about the way her shirt clings to her abdomen and if her dark locks curl just so. Then she waits, pacing up and down her bedroom, back and forth.

She's hungry. This is always happens when she tries to restrict her food. It backfires. She binges, and then she purges. It's only a matter of time. So why does she even bother staying out of the kitchen, if it'll happen anyway?

Don't know. It's the principle of the thing. It's a quitting attitude. That's not the attitude to have if she wants to loose weight.

The doorbell rings. She trips on her way down the stairs. Nerves. Headache. What does it matter?

She opens the door, and Finn is standing on her front porch with his schoolbooks in hand.

"Hi, Finn," she moves so he can step inside, gently shutting the door behind him.

"Hey, Rachel. Thanks _so much _for helping me. I tried to do some of the homework before I came, really, but I can't figure it out. Like, I barely understood how to get the angles of triangles, and now we have to move on to trapezoids and _hexagons_? Shouldn't that be illegal or something? When will I ever need to know the angles of a hexagon-"

"It's okay, Finn," she smiles, happy to have someone to talk to, someone to console. It takes away from herself, if only for a second, "I'm happy to help. We'll get it done together."

"I just feel like you do so much for me, you know? With glee and school and everything. I wish I could do something to repay you-"

"That's silly. We're friends," she begins walking and leads them into the kitchen. First she is shocked, then calm. _Okay, okay. Okay. Let's do this._

She won't get in trouble for this. (she still asks herself who, exactly, she's afraid of. _Herself_)

"Do you want a snack?" she asks nonchalantly, beginning to dig through the kitchen cabinets.

"Sure," he says, and they decide on some soda and popcorn. While it's in the microwave, she mentally makes a checklist of what else she can get out, gives him the soda and the popcorn, and tells him she'll meet him upstairs.

Once the sound of Finn's feet creaking on the staircase cease, Rachel almost lunges for the fridge. She grabs leftover pasta and chicken (when she's binging, veganism isn't exactly at the top of her priority list. It was always just a ploy, anyway), along with a jar of pickles and some olives. Once she eats about half and puts it back (she has a quirk where she can't finish anything she begins to eat. It makes her feel like less of a pig, being able to leave some), she searches through cupboards for a box of cereal, eating handfuls while taking swigs of milk. Then she grabs a spoon and shovels in ice cream right from the carton. After, she puts everything away and washes her face and hands. She calmly walks upstairs to her room where Finn is waiting patiently, fingers drumming on a textbook.

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry," she smiles, sipping her soda, "I couldn't find a paper I needed."

They begin to work on geometry homework. She takes a few pieces of popcorn because she feels like she should, downing the rest of her soda as quickly as possible, "Excuse me for a second."

Rachel goes into her bathroom, locking the door behind her. It's risky, but her fathers' bathroom doesn't have everything she needs. It's not like Finn's bright enough to figure anything out.

She breathes, staring down at the toilet. It's been five minutes, tops. It wouldn't have digested that quickly. It couldn't have.

She turns on the water in the faucet and flushes the toilet, vomit splashing into the swirling water. The pressure builds up behind her nose, and she feels a certain relief when she hits the gag spot, stomach lurching. Once she sees strands of linguini, she knows she's finished.

"Rachel?" Finn's pounding on the door, "What the hell are you doing in there?"

_Damnit_. "I'll be out in a minute!"

She coughs, sniffs, goes through her ritual, spraying air freshener and sticking three mints into her mouth before opening the door.

"Are you okay?" he asks as she sits down and checks the clock. Ten minutes. Not long, but long enough for him to worry, "Your eyes look kind of red."

They wouldn't if he hadn't rushed her, but she can't say that, "I'm fine. Just a little queasy, that's all."

"Really? Quinn said you've been sick a lot lately."

Damn Quinn getting in everyone else's business, like always. Is she really insecure enough to have to destroy ever aspect of her life? She's probably jealous because Finn pays attention to her now. She was before. Why would being pregnant with someone else's child.

Then again, why should Quinn care about _her_ life? Apparently, she didn't even love Finn. Or she loved him enough to lie to him. It's hard to tell the difference. Anyway, she _isn't_ helping by sticking her nose in things she doesn't understand.

"Yes, well, Quinn Fabray should mind her own business."

"If you don't feel good, I can go-"

"I'm fine, Finn, really. Let's just… get the homework done."

He says okay, because he's Finn and she's Rachel. He's stupid enough and she's not supposed to be that stupid.

When he leaves two hours later, still not completely understanding angles in regards to parallel liens, she coughs up blood and chalks it up to a popcorn kernel being stuck in her throat. After all, nothing could be wrong. That kind of thing just doesn't happen. Not to her, anyway. It's impossible.

We should never outlaw the impossible. It will come back to bite us later.


	12. Quinn III

_I apologize a million times for not having this out sooner. I'm very busy with school. Once I get all my college app. stress out of the way, hopefully I'll have more time for this :)_

_Also, I wasn't exactly motivated after I didn't get any reviews for Rachel's last chapter :( I guess you guys aren't fans... oh well, I still love her (despite the character warping they seem to be doing with her on the show). I don't want to demand for reviews or anything because I hate when people do that, but it would be nice..._

_

* * *

_

_Crashing_

_Quinn_

_._

"I lost my loose grasp on a sort of self-respect, and with it fell the last of my caution."

Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

.

The afternoon light is slanting through her – _Noah's sister's _– window, creating shapes of light across the bedspread. She doesn't know how long she's been laying here; she collapsed onto the bed at least a few hours ago after attempting (and failing) to finish her homework. Puck's out, probably sleeping with some other girl. His mother is grocery shopping, maybe. She went somewhere. Lily is probably with her. She's been losing sense of time lately, along with any concentration or motivation.

Quinn found a rosary today, tucked into the bottom of her duffel bag. She hadn't felt like doing much of anything after that. _It was a present from her daddy, straight from the Vatican itself…_

She still has her late work from when she missed school last week, as well as her weekend homework. Hadn't _that _been nice – sleeping the day away and waking up to an empty house? It's peaceful to be alone. There was no one to ask her questions or get her to play dollhouse or keep her from eating bacon. It's nice to wake up rested and then to remain feeling calm the rest of the day, at least until everyone else comes home. Even if the sleep was drug induced, it's better than lying awake all night.

It's better than lying awake at all. But she can't just down sleeping pills in the middle of the day. People would probably get worried.

She wishes she could sleep forever. Well, maybe not forever; that's a little dramatic. Long enough to wake up and have her life back on track. Long enough to wake up and not feel so hopeless all the time. Then again, it's not as if she doesn't have reason to feel that way. She's _pregnant _damnit, not to mention homeless and rejected and struggling with the fact that one of her core values might not even exist anymore.

She doesn't have a right to be sad. She never respected herself or God in the first place. If she did, she wouldn't be pregnant. She wouldn't _be _any of this.

Would Finn still love her? Would her parents? Did anyone ever love her in the first place?

The door slams. Someone's home, though she can't really say she cares much _who_. When did she stop caring about things? Well, that's a lie. She cares about _some _things, just not a lot. Mainly things concerning herself.

Puck strides by whistling, stopping in the doorway when he sees her, "I didn't know you were here."

Like he would. He's too busy having sex with girls to notice much of anything.

He leans against the doorframe, waiting for her to say something. She doesn't. She keeps staring at the sunlight splashing across the comforter, across her round stomach and her covered arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she says quietly. He takes a step into the room.

"Obviously."

This is the part where she complains about him being a smartass, except her mouth isn't working. This is the part where she tells him to shut up and go fetch her some strange, pregnancy hormone driven concoction, except she just… doesn't care.

This is the part when they act like the teenage couple in love, determined to take on parenthood. Or this is the part where Puck walks out on her and she is left to fend for herself.

Except nothing about them is normal. Instead of glowing from her pregnancy, she is sad. Instead of being in love (were they ever in love to begin with?), they're at odds and in the wrong spaces (he wants the baby, she doesn't). Instead of working things out, Puck's fucking other girls while she's lying here alone.

Everything is empty. Everything about her is empty, except her body, which is fuller than before. Too full. It would be different if her life hadn't been torn to pieces. Perhaps it would even be different if her parents had allowed her to stay at home, pregnant and all. So many things would be different if she was different; a different person, a different home, a different family, a different name.

But let's face it. Considering the circumstances, everything about her is shameful. She doesn't deserve to belong there anymore.

This should be her bed. She should still have a bed, and a pillow to lay her head on at night, and a window to look out of morning and night. She should still have the perfect boyfriend and a red and white cheerleading uniform, hair in a perfectly placed ponytail. She should still have a mother to talk to and a father to tell her she is special. She should still have a church to go to and a bible to read and a God to pray to.

But this isn't her bed. This isn't her home. She's kicked off the squad, her uniform doesn't fit, and she lied to her boyfriend. Her father disowned her and her mother went along for the ride. If she went to church, everyone would stare and whisper, if God didn't strike her down first. She didn't bring her bible with her, and she doesn't know if God exists anymore.

That wouldn't be such a big deal to most people. They don't pay attention to religion. Sometimes (most of the time), she wishes she didn't either. That wouldn't make this so earth shattering. Then her sins wouldn't be so toxic, septic, vile. She wouldn't see them as sins at all. _Funny how life works that way._

But that's not her life. She's awful. She's downright terrible, and that will never go away-

"Hello? Earth to Quinn?"

"What?" he's closer now, staring at her worriedly.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little tired," she says, attempting to sit up. He moves to help her.

"Here, I'll-"

"It's fine, Puck. I got it."

She sits upright the bed, legs dangling over the side, stomach protruding perfectly round in front of her. She can't see her feet anymore. That thought alone makes her enormously tired. And angry. But mostly just tired.

His face is contorted into an expression similar to concern, something she isn't used to seeing, "You're almost eight months pregnant, Quinn. Let me help you with _something._"

"I really don't need your help."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm _fine_. Just tired," she stands up and walks past him, brushing against his shoulder and entering the bathroom to grab the sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet. He follows her, which she finds annoying and rude. Shouldn't he have somewhere else to be? He's never there when she actually needs him.

"What are those?"

"Sleeping pills," she places two capsules on the counter and grabs a cup (they keep paper cups under the sink, which she thinks is a waste. Why not just get a glass from the kitchen?)

"Did your doctor give them to you?"

She turns on the faucet, waiting for the water to get cold, "No."

"Then should you be taking them?"

"I don't know."

He swipes the bottle off the counter, along with the two pills she'd gotten out, "How often do you take these?"

"Puck! Give it back!"

He gives her a smug smile, the one she hates and yet fell for, "Answer my question."

"I don't know, a few times a week? Just give them back, I'm tired!"

"Then sleep like a normal person."

Her eyes narrow into slits, "Fuck you."

"Hey, why are you getting so angry? I'm just trying to help. Do you ever think about what that does to the baby?"

Well no, not really.

"Since when do you care?"

"I've always _cared. _You're pregnant with my kid, of course I care."

"Could've fooled me."

He rolls his eyes, "Is this your hormones acting up again?"

"Would everyone quit blaming everything on my hormones? I'm not allowed to just be angry? Does every part of me have to be connected to the _baby_?"

She is no longer a person. Just a carrier. A sin.

"Well… you _are _pregnant."

"That doesn't mean… ugh, never mind! Give me that!"

She snatches the bottle out of his hand. He doesn't protest, but he doesn't take his eyes off her as she swallows two capsules washed down with water.

"I still don't think you should do that."

"I don't really care what you think."

"Quit being such a bitch, Miss Prissy."

"I'm a _bitch_? I'm a… what the hell, Puck? You haven't quit sleeping around since you knocked me up, and _I'm _the bitch here?"

"… I didn't know it bothered you so much."

"Didn't know it _bothered _me? How can you be such an idiot? Of course it _bothers me_!"

"Well it's not my fault you won't say a damn word to me," he fumes, eyes aglow with anger, "Sometimes it's like you're not even here, the way you act!"

"Maybe I'll just move out, since I'm obviously not wanted!"

If he had any intention of proving her statement wrong, he passes up the opportunity," Yeah? Where the hell do you think you're gonna go?"

She storms out on him, shutting the door and laying down on the bed, anxiously waiting for the drugs to take their hold.

The next day, Mercedes asks her to move in. If she still believed in God, she'd say her prayers had been answered. Now, it's just a lucky coincidence.

* * *

_Hope you liked it, and I hope Tina will come out sometime this month... I have all the ideas for her, just no words._


	13. Tina III

_Long time no see! School is insanely busy, sorry about that. Good news is I finally found some time to finish this! Christmas break is coming up, so hopefully I'll get a lot more done. Also, I barely edited this to get it up. Apologies for any mistakes._

_Thank you to Carbon65 for this idea!_

* * *

_Undoing_

_Tina_

_._

"_I didn't want to be seen anymore. I wanted to__ be left entirely alone." _

_Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

_._

Tina feels like her world is caving in on her.

Why. _Why?_

Her parents signed her up for Drivers Ed. _Drivers. Ed. _Driving. In a car. Controlling a vehicle. Keeping it from crashing.

Crashing. Crashing into a tree. Into someone else. _Someone else crashing into her…_

_Oh God…_

"We would've told you sooner, but we thought you'd do something drastic. Your first class is tonight."

Her mother informs her of all this as she's dropping her off at school. Tina feels like she's going to faint.

_Tonight? _It can't be tonight. She hasn't had time to prepare. For what, she isn't exactly sure. Prepare herself mentally, to keep herself from completely freaking out and dying on the spot. What if she hits something? _What if she crashes? What if she dies? What if-_

See. See, this is why driving is a bad idea. A very bad idea. She should've been born back in the 1800s when everyone rode horses everywhere and never went anywhere because it was too far.

"I'm not going."

Her mother laughs, "Yes you are, Tina. We paid for it. You need to learn how to drive sometime, sweetie."

"Well, not now."

"Then when?"

"I don't know, when I'm thirty? Mom, sixteen year olds are three times more likely to die in a car crash than all other drivers. I don't want to die!"

"You aren't going to die. Hurry up - you're going to be late for school!"

"Mom, no! You don't understand-"

"Tina, honey, you need to stop being so dramatic. I'll pick you up after school and we'll head over to the driving school, okay?"

She grumbles under her breath and climbs out of the car, black boots heavily scraping across the sidewalk and into the school. How can they do this to her? Why would they do this?

Obviously, they hate her. Obviously, this is some kind of plot to get rid of her. That's it. They're going to make her drive and then she'll crash and die and be out of their hair for good. They'll never have to see her again. They can have a party. A "my daughter's dead" party. Everyone will come…

Drive. _She has to drive_. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

"Hey, Tina!" she looks up to see Mercedes and Kurt standing at their lockers, waiting for her, "Are you okay? You look a little pale."

She doesn't exactly need to add any extra talking anxiety to her list right now, "I'm… fine, thanks."

"Really, T, you could use some tinted moisturizer," Kurt begins digging through his bag. She takes a step back.

"It's okay, guys, r-really, I just… um… w-w-well, I'm fine."

"Obviously not, if your stutter is back. You sure you don't want to go sit down?"

She'd _love_ to sit down, in fact. She'd love to run away and curl up in a ball and cry. Maybe that would fix the lack of oxygen flowing to her brain. She tries to take deeper breaths, hand rubbing continuous circles into her chest.

"No. It's okay."

She attempts to dodge them, but they follow her to her locker anyway.

"Seriously. We're not idiots."

She should lie. Tell them it's personal. That'd make them leave. It's too embarrassing to admit…

"My parents are making me take Driver's Ed."

They pause for a second or two, mulling it over.

"So?"

See? It's a stupid problem. No one else is afraid of driving. _That's stupid. You're stupid. Quit being so stupid._

"I just… don't like driving, okay?"

"Lots of people don't like driving, Tina. It's not that big of a deal."

Well, yes it is. People like Kurt and Mercedes could never understand that. Confident, outgoing people could never understand that.

"Well, I… it freaks me out."

They exchange a look, probably thinking she's insane and a crybaby. They had to learn the truth soon enough. Now they'll never want to be her friend…

Maybe that's easier. Being alone is easier than trying to connect with people. She should run away. There must be some sort of convent somewhere that will accept her. She'd probably have to dye her hair back to normal, but that's a small price to pay. Nuns don't have to talk to people right? Just God. That's easy enough.

"I was freaked out too my first time. You get over it quickly."

"I doubt it."

Kurt nods, "Trust me, Tina. Once you get your license, you'll be glad you suffered through the entire ordeal."

"But it's not-" she's cut off at the sound of the bell, and is quite relieved at that. She has a multiple choice test in English today. She'd rather be analyzing text for answers than searching for answers to questions out loud.

"Lets meet up at lunch," Mercedes smiles, "Kurt and I will prepare you for everything. Those instructors won't know what hit 'em."

…

Lunch arrives sooner than Tina anticipated. She sits down at her usual table, quaking in her seat. Only four more hours until class, and then she'll die from panic. Maybe she'll die before that from sheer anxiety.

This is stupid. It's not like she hasn't talked to Kurt and Mercedes before, or sat with them for that matter. Except she's never spoken with them when she's so… _on edge_. She just gets like this sometimes… jumpy, heart beating fast, sweaty palms. It gets harder to breathe. She's expected to hold a conversation through that? She's expected to act normal through that? It's easier to leave, to run away, to hide under the covers until the fear passes.

There's nowhere to hide. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

She slowly picks at her tray as she watches Kurt and Mercedes across the room, laughing in the lunch line. They'll be over in a minute tops. _What is she supposed to say?_

It's times like this when she really hates herself – whatever's wrong with her. It's crippling. More crippling than anyone could understand. They all nod their heads and smile and say _you're just shy._

Really? She's starting to think it's a little more than that. Even shy people can bring themselves to say hello eventually. They can make friends. The thought of a crowd doesn't make them stop breathing.

Maybe this is different.

She swallows the rest of her sanity as Mercedes and Kurt sit down across from her, still laughing from their previous conversation.

"Hey, Tina."

"… hi."

"Hey, didn't you have that English test today? Was it hard?"

"Um… I'm in honors. We had a multiple choice packet."

Will Mercedes be offended? Tina doesn't want to sound like she's smarter than her or anything… she isn't. Her parents wanted her to take honors. Still, is that offensive? What if-

"Oh, right," Mercedes says simply. Meanwhile Kurt's eyes grow wide.

"I completely forgot about that. Does he grade it hard?"

"It's not so bad. Just make sure you remember the analysis terms we learned last week. You'll be fine… I mean, you're way smarter than me, Kurt."

He starts digging through his backpack, looking for his English binder. Mercedes laughs at him, taking another bite of her lunch. Tina just watches them.

How can they do that? Just sit there and… live?

"Oh yeah. Tonight at Driver's Ed, make sure you bring a notebook to doodle in. It's super boring."

"Oh?"

"Trust me. The teacher, he goes on and on about how 'motorcycles are to be respected' and how he's been in a million accidents but is somehow still alive. Well, those stories are kind of interesting, but the rest of it is dumb."

Maybe she should be taking notes.

"They'll probably start signing you up for drives right away," Kurt chimes in, flipping through his notebook, "So either get it over with or put it off, but they'll make you do it eventually. You'll also have to talk in class. Rich is big on talking. Thinks everyone 'soaks in the experience better.'"

_Talking._ As if she wasn't going to be miserable enough.

"But like we said, you'll be fine. It isn't so bad."

Tina has a feeling they have very different definitions of _bad_. She spends the rest of lunch listening to their advice, nerves only growing. One thing's for sure, she can't wait to go home and forget all of this. To get some sleep.

* * *

_Forgot to tell you guys, I got a tumblr! Go to my profile page to get the link and follow me. :)_


	14. Brittany and Rachel

_Havoc_

_._

_Brittany and Rachel_

_._

"_I am at war with my body."_

_- Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns_

.

There is nothing more daunting than her reflection in the glass.

Brittany stands in front of the mirror in the girl's bathroom, pressing her fingers into the hollows of her cheeks. They're too soft. They shouldn't feel like that.

Her arms and legs are muscular from lifting girls in cheerleading. It's disgusting. Her butt's too round and her thighs are too big. Her stomach's huge – she's surprised no one wonders if she's pregnant. Her collarbones don't stick out enough and her hair's a mess.

It wasn't always like this - she knows that. She just can't remember when that time was. How did she ever make it through the day without wondering how she looked through someone else's eyes?

This has become normal. Emptiness has become normal.

Everyone should try it. It's fantastic. Really, the room spinning every time she stands up just makes her feel alive. She likes feeling empty. Really truly likes it. It means she's accomplishing something. It means she can contain herself.

Brittany knows everyone will like her when she's skinny. She just has to get there.

It's halfway through fifth period, right after lunch. Brittany only told her English teacher she had to go to the bathroom because it was too cold to concentrate and she didn't know what anyone was saying. It's been happening a lot lately. She's freezing, even though she knows it's not really all that cold outside. Maybe she's sick or something.

And then there's the sound of a toilet flushing along with what sounds like vomit falling into the bowl. She thought she was alone. Now she'll probably have to go back to class…

The stall door opens and out pops Rachel Berry, looking sick and tired as well as shocked. She also thought she was alone. She skipped class to come to the bathroom and purge since she didn't have any time at lunch, what with Quinn stalking her and everyone giving her concerned looks. They're really all too suspicious for their own good if you ask her.

She pales at the sight of the Cheerio standing there, staring. Brittany doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut. She'll probably go blabbing to Santana, and then Santana will want to torture her with it, of course. Then everyone will know. Well. She'll have to get Brittany to keep quiet about it. Like Quinn, though she isn't exactly doing a stellar job of that…

From where Brittany's standing, Rachel's eyes are bloodshot and watery. Her lips are bright red, cheeks pale, fingers trembling. Some of the knuckles on her right hand are bleeding or maybe just bloodstained. She looks like she wants to kill her or just fall asleep for a really long time. Brittany doesn't blame her. She understands that feeling.

"You look awful."

Rachel sniffs but doesn't say anything. It's just Brittany, right? She doesn't _know anything_. So why would she be concerned about someone throwing up? The Cheerios must do it all the time.

"Were you throwing up?"

"No."

Alarms go off in her head, like always, the panic leaping into place before she has a chance to rationalize anything. She's going to _tell people._

"It's okay if you were. I mean, I want to be skinny too. I just can't puke."

That's a surprise. Brittany is already skinny. It's not fair. As if she _wants more_. As if she's that much better at losing weight…

"You… but you're a Cheerio. You're popular."

Brittany stares at her blankly. Why would those things matter? Rachel should understand that.

"That doesn't make me pretty or anything. Does throwing up make it easier? Like, can you eat whatever you want?"

That'd be so easy. To just eat and eat and then puke it all away… but she can't do that. She's tried before. It doesn't work. Not eating is… neater. Throwing up is gross anyway. That's why she stopped drinking Miss Sylvester's master cleanse. No one knows the difference.

"… sometimes," Rachel says weakly, moving to wash her hands and face. She stares at herself for a long time in the mirror, pinching underneath her eyes, cheeks, and throat.

"That'd be nice…"

She turns quickly, shutting off the water and glaring at her hands, "No. I wish I could starve."

She watches Rachel as she uses paper towels to wipe off her face and rinses her mouth out with water, "Well… we could hang out sometime, you know. My mom has these great diet books. I could help you with hiding food and stuff. I'm really good at it."

She tries to smile as the brunette stares at her, "Why would you want to spend time with _me_?"

"Because we're the same."

Rachel doesn't see how they can be the same at all. She's a complete failure, while judging by the look of her, Brittany has losing weight down to the simplest terms. Rachel's a loser, Brittany's popular. Rachel's fat, Brittany's skinny. They're different.

But Brittany sees all the ways they are the same. After all, they want the same thing, don't they? They both want to be skinny. They both want to feel better. That's got to be enough to bond in some way.

"Well…" Rachel sighs, whipping out a pen and paper as she scribbles down her phone number, "I suppose it'd be nice to have someone to talk to."

"Yeah. I'll call you, for sure," she smiles, giddy again. She likes having friends. It'll be good to have Rachel. They can talk about important things, like weight and food and stuff. Stuff she can't talk about with Santana. Not anymore, anyway.

Rachel leaves the bathroom, still sniffling, and heads into the hallway only to wander around until fifth period is over. Maybe she can go to the choir room. It's bound to be empty. Mr. Schue has Spanish every period except for glee…

Maybe it won't be so bad, talking to Brittany. She'll have someone who understands somewhat. As long as it doesn't backfire… but why would Brittany tell? At this point, she's obviously quite good at keeping secrets.

Brittany leaves the bathroom, walking slowly back to class. It's still sort of hard to concentrate because now she realizes she is hungry. Really hungry.

That hunger persists through the rest of the school day, all through Cheerios practice and her drive home when she makes a wrong turn and ends up driving twenty minutes out of her way before she realizes what she did and goes back.

She's so hungry. _Hungry hungry hungry hungry_-

It's almost as if she's actually digesting her stomach. Maybe she is.

She steps into her empty house and falls into the kitchen island. Standing up and shaking her head, she decides eating one thing wouldn't be so bad. Just one thing…

Except it isn't just "one thing." It can't be, and it never will be.

She finds a bag of marshmallows. Her nails dig into the plastic, ripping it open and inhaling the sugary scent wafting from the bag. She picks up one hesitantly, bringing it to her lips and chewing. It tastes good. Too good.

Somehow, they keep coming, one after the other. She can't chew fast enough.

Everything is spinning at hyper speed, so quick that she can't even taste it. She is like a robot: chew, swallow, chew, swallow until her insides are bulging at the seams and empty, flimsy plastic is clutched tight in her hands.

What did she just do? Oh, now she's in for it.

_She's going to get fat now._

Maybe she can be like Rachel. It's so easy for her. Maybe…

She sprints to the bathroom, diving down onto her knees and inserting her fingers into her mouth, pressing as hard as she can on her throat but nothing comes up. Nothing ever comes up. She can't do it. _Weak_. _Loser_. _Failure_. She can't even finish what she started.

Brittany stands up, wiping the spit off her hands and glaring at her reflection.

This calls for something special. The place she hates the most.

She digs out the box of laxatives from underneath her bed. She skips dinner, locked in the bathroom, moaning to her parents that she has a stomach bug, she's fine, old enough to take care of herself. The rest of the night is spent in the dark, forehead pressed against the cool tile until the dirty work is done, trying to keep herself from screaming and waking up her parents.

She sincerely hopes this is the worst pain she will ever feel. It's worse than any cramps she's ever had. Probably worse than child labor. Worse than dying, even.

This is the price. She doesn't remember when it happened, but at some point she became willing to do anything for _it_.

Finally the pains subside at close to three in the morning. She crawls into bed, exhausted, dreading waking up in two hours for her morning workout.

Well, one thing's for certain. She's never eating marshmallows again. _Never eating anything again._


	15. Quinn IV

_I'm back! Quin was being especially difficult and I was insanely busy. Now that it's vacation, I'll hopefully get out another chapter before the end of the week._

_

* * *

_

Disrupting

_Quinn_

"She looks like a disheveled angel, with the white duvet-wings folded over her shoulders."

Skinny by Ibi Kaslik

.

Mercedes house is _loud_, to say the least. Quinn isn't used to it. She and her sister were _angels_. Yelling was a rare occurrence. Mercedes little brother and sister are constantly screaming at each other. And hitting. Quinn doesn't think she's ever seen two children beat on each other so much in her life, except for when she babysat Kendra's insane demon kids. Yet the two of them still get along just fine, apparently.

"Oh, it's all part of growing up," Mrs. Jones chuckles when Quinn questions her about the fighting, "They learn how to communicate, how to hold their own. Don't worry, I'm not going to let them get out knives or anything. But still, there's a lot of value in just letting kids be kids."

She can't argue, because it's not like she knows much about that.

Mercedes helps her unpack in her brother's old room. He's off at Oberlin, but the semester's almost over. Quinn wonders how he'll react to his room being taken over by a homeless pregnant girl, but Mercedes says she shouldn't worry about it, as he's dealt with worse.

"Once, Ellie and Ben decorated all his walls with crayon. It took him weeks to scrub it all off. Of course, then there was the time I buried his bed sheets in the backyard…"

"Didn't you get in trouble?"

"Well, I had to dig them back up all by myself and wash them. And he whacked me a couple times, but he'd stolen all my Pokemon cards…"

"Pokemon?"

"I was only seven. Those things were awesome back then… wait, you never played Pokemon?"

"Er… no."

"No offense, but are you a part of a cult or something? Everyone knows about Pokemon."

Apparently, her structured childhood also caused her to miss out on a lot.

It amazes her how the Jones family can welcome her so suddenly with such an open mind and such optimism. They're loud and exciting, and they like to sing a lot (Mercedes and her mother both sing in the church choir). When Ben and Ellie aren't fighting, they're jabbering on about how Quinn should name her baby Coconut or Rainbow (those might be an improvement over Drizzle). Mr. Jones, Brian, comes home from work every night and easily jumps into the chaos. Best of all, they let her eat bacon.

Their life amazes her. She wishes her home could've possessed only a fraction of that spark.

Despite the warmth in her new home, she still feels alone and very empty. Of course, she does her best to hide it from everyone. Her insomnia becomes the perfect outlet. No one expects her to keep up a façade in the middle of the night.

Mercedes brother's old room has a nice perch by the windowsill, and Quinn often finds herself there, staring out at the dark street below. She stopped bothering even trying to sleep – it would only end in wasted hours staring at the ceiling. The night is good for catching up on schoolwork if she finds the energy. More often than not, she isn't productive. She doesn't want to do anything. What's the _point_ in doing anything? Will there ever be a point in anything again? Really, the only thing she's keeping up with these days is her supply of sleeping pills and permanent markers.

Of course, she's made sure no one here notices her habit. It's hard when she's knocked out for a good five hours, especially at two in the afternoon, but no one's said anything. Maybe they don't want to bother her. Maybe they figure she's dealing with enough as it is. The homeless teenage trollop. Why disturb her peace?

The ink stains won't fade as long as she keeps adding more. She's careful to keep all of her short sleeve tops in her suitcase out of reach, despite the fact that it's warming up outside. She's pregnant. She can dress however she wants and no one cares. No one should really care about anything.

It's early Sunday morning and she watches the stars fade as the birds wake up. She's planning on sleeping all day today. The Lord 's Day is a day of rest, right? It's not like she has anywhere to go anymore.

She used to go to mass and pray for her pregnancy to just be a big joke. She prayed for Finn to forgive her, for her father to love her, for mother to reach out and ask if she was okay. God never answered and Daddy kicked her out. She decided that if her father didn't love her, God didn't love her either, and maybe God didn't even exist anymore.

She went to church once – the first Sunday after she started living at Finn's house. Everyone stared as she sat in a pew in the back, all alone, and her family didn't give her a second glance. She left in the middle of the homily because she couldn't stand everyone's eyes. She couldn't stand sitting in a place where God was supposed to listen and be there, and yet He didn't save her. He still hasn't saved her.

It's because she's a sinner. She's a liar and a cheater and that's unforgivable. She deserves to be alone.

Perhaps she'll never go to church again. Not if there's nothing to go for.

Still, it's another hole in her already crumbling life. Another change, another absence. Homeless, faithless, loveless. How much more can she lose?

Of course, the Jones attend their own Baptist church every Sunday. They put on their nice clothes and pile into the car, Mercedes and her mother both warming up their voices throughout the morning, Ben and Ellie fighting over who gets the front seat. Quinn watches as she eats her breakfast, her fingernails digging into her palms underneath the table.

Of course, she's invited. They're too polite not to invite her, unlike her family. Her family wouldn't take in a homeless girl in the first place. Mercedes asks as they're putting the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, eying Quinn still in her pajamas.

"Do you want to come with us?"

She stops for a minute, unsure of what to say. She's surprised, really. Why would they want a girl like her in their church? Everyone's… meant to be ashamed of her.

"Well… I'm not Baptist."

Mrs. Jones chuckles, brushing her church hat off as she retrieves it from the closet, "Oh that doesn't matter, honey. We might even show a Catholic girl like you a good time."

They wait for her answer as she stands there, dumbstruck, mouth half open like some kind of idiot. _People shouldn't want her in places like that. She'll bring evil there. She brings bad luck to everyone she knows-_

Really, she's too sinful to deserve anyone's love.

"I… I don't think so. Thank you, though. It just… wouldn't feel right."

Mercedes frowns, "Well, okay…"

Her mother pats her on the arm, "Now girl, it doesn't matter. You should know church is home to people. Quinn doesn't have to come if she doesn't want to."

Mercedes nods and waves goodbye as she leaves to untangle her siblings from their seatbelt war. Mrs. Jones places her hand on Quinn's shoulder as she exits the kitchen.

"There's a bible on the shelf if you feel like some special reading today. We'll be back in a few hours. Help yourself to anything."

"Thank you," she nods as she watches the front door shut.

The silence sinks around her as she walks towards the living room bookshelf, staring at the spine of the bible sticking out in between a pregnancy book and a Nora Roberts novel.

What would happen if she opened it? Probably nothing, but she doesn't feel strong enough to find out.

Quinn climbs the stairs and falls onto the bed, her pink beaded rosary flinging out from underneath the mattress.

She tosses it into the garbage can as she downs sleeping pills once again, pulling the shades and waiting to fall away.

…

She wakes up around two, sitting up groggily as Mrs. Jones enters her room. Did she remember to hide the pills? Did anyone try to wake her up?

"Oh, you're up. I didn't want to bother you when we got home. Mercedes wanted to go shopping, but I know how hard it can be to sleep sometimes when you're pregnant – every minute counts!"

She notices the woman has her pink rosary settled in the palm of her hand.

"I found this in the trash can," she smiles as she sits down next to her on the bed, "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

She almost wants to cry because her mother would never talk to her about something like that. Her mother would never talk to her period, not about anything serious or against their perfect family outline.

She doesn't want the rosary anymore because she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't want something her father gave her. She doesn't want anything.

"No. I'm fine."

She tries to smile when she says it, but it comes out more like a grimace and Mrs. Jones pats her shoulder as she leaves the rosary on the bedspread.

"Just think about it. We're always here."

_She leaves, and Quinn tucks the rosary back underneath the mattress before falling asleep again._

* * *

_I hope you liked it! Thank you to everyone who ever reviewed or alerted this! Santana's up next and you'll probably want to kill me once I get through with her... Again, hopefully I'll update soon!_


	16. Santana III

_Ravaging_

_Santana_

_._

"_You become fearless in a very twisted way." _

_Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

_._

Santana prides herself for being observant. She knows everything that's going on at this school, even what people don't want her to know, maybe what she shouldn't know. She doesn't care. If someone doesn't want her to be in their business, maybe they shouldn't make their life so damn obvious.

The one person she notices more than anyone else is Brittany. Of course she does. Brittany's her best friend. They do everything together. At least, they used to.

But Santana smells blood in the water. Brittany's been hanging out with _Berry_.

It wouldn't be out of the ordinary since Britt's nice to everyone; it would just piss Santana off a little. It's weird now. They do _weird _stuff, like go to the bathroom together after lunch (not that they eat much lunch), or whisper all the time and stop talking when anyone else gets near. They come to school buried underneath layers of clothes and do leg lifts underneath the table during class. She's even seen Brittany texting Rachel a few times. It's weirder than weird and the number one thing that bothers her is not knowing what's going on.

So really, she'll just have to do what she always does. Barge in on other people's business. After all, no one messes with her girl.

She corners Rachel at her locker during break, putting a fresh piece of gum in her mouth. She turns and stares wide-eyed as Santana glares at her.

"What are you doing with Brittany?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I've _seen you_ giggling, and it isn't nice. Secrets don't make friends."

"We're not friends, Santana."

"Well no one steals mine."

"I'm not stealing Brittany. There's no reason we can't share."

"This isn't preschool, and I don't _share_. There's nothing I can't give her."

She slams her locker shut, face looking a little swollen, "There's _plenty _of solstice she can't find with you. You think she tells you everything just because you think she's stupid? Well she isn't, and she doesn't tell you a lot of things."

"I don't think she's stupid! What doesn't she tell me? She tells_ you_?"

"Brittany and I have a special relationship, and it's none of your business."

She rolls her eyes; as if Brittany could want anything from _Rachel_. She must be repressing some sort of girl crush and Brit feels sorry for her. It can't be anything else. She can't _want _to be friends with her.

But… what sort of secrets could they be keeping?

"Leave my Britts _alone_, Berry. Or you'll be very sorry."

"If your jealousy is so concerning, why don't you speak with Brittany about it?" she replies and turns on her heel, walking down the hallway.

"Bet it's just your way of getting some lesbo action on the side!" Santana attempts to yell after her, but she doesn't turn around. Whatever. She still got the last word.

She _will _find out what's going on here, though it would be a little easier if she wasn't feeling queasy every five seconds.

Brittany's in the locker room after school, pulling down the sleeves of her uniform even though it's almost June and they turned in their winter turtlenecks a long time ago.

"Why are you wearing that?"

"I'm cold."

Santana throws her bag down onto a bench and tightens her ponytail, analyzing the way Brittany pinches her cheeks in the mirror.

"So, when were you going to tell me you were friends with Rachel?"

She sighs, turning to face her, "She's really nice, Santana."

"You can hang out with whoever you want. Fine by me. I can find a new best friend…"

"You're still my favorite!" she says urgently, "Don't be mad. Rachel and I can just talk about stuff."

"_We_ talk about stuff."

"Not _everything_."

"Then let's talk."

"Well…" Brittany pauses, digging at the floor with her toe, "We don't have to. There's just stuff I'd rather talk to other people about. You talk to other people."

"But why _Rachel_? We don't like her."

"I like her."

"I just don't see why you need her. I tell you everything!"

"You don't talk about your family. Like, ever. I've never even met your mom."

Well, that's true. Brittany came to her house once, but only because Santana needed a change of clothes. She dragged her to her room, past the hulking form of her father watching TV and her mother in the laundry room sorting lights from darks. Brittany wanted to meet them but Santana wouldn't let her, pulling her out the door just as her parents started yelling in Spanish. She got her in the car before she could hear her mother slam into the counter.

Brittany doesn't need to know about her family, about what _happens there_. No one needs to know.

"Okay. You have a point…"

Brittany smiles softly, holding her pinky out, "Am I still your favorite?"

"Of course."

They walk onto the field hand in hand, and for a second she forgets about her nausea.

…

That night the sky is dark with a new moon as she paints her nails a light shade of pink. Muted sounds from the TV float through the doorway. Mama is sewing in the next room. Angel is probably already in bed.

They all live separate lives here, only coming together when they have to. It's not like they have much of a reason to enjoy each other's company. Not when he's around.

It's close to ten o'clock, and Papa's just starting to get drunk enough. Generally, that means it's time for bed.

A sliver of light shines underneath her door as she lies in bed, glow-in-the-dark stars faintly outlined on the ceiling. Her bedroom looks the same as it did when she was seven, princess bed sheets and all. Another perfectly good reason to not invite anyone over.

Minutes pass. The sowing machine stops clicking somewhere around eleven thirty. The lights go out, but the TV still plays. She can't make out the words, drifting in and out of sleepiness. She's too keyed up to really rest.

It's always like this at night.

The TV shuts off. It's pitch black. His footsteps stomp down the hallway. Seven steps and he's going to bed. Eleven, and he's coming here.

(_One, two, three, four, fivesixseveneightnine.._)

She really doesn't need to count the rest.

The doorknob turns. She doesn't say anything. No one says anything. What are they supposed to say? By now, it's a moot point. Everyone knows their part and plays it well. Too well.

The covers peel back. She watches the glow-in-the-dark stars swim above her as his hand slips down her pants.

…

The alarm goes off at six. She turns it off quickly, as she was already awake, and grabs a clean uniform to put on after her shower, picking at her fingernails.

He smudged her nail polish.

She didn't sleep after he left – she never does. The stars stopped glowing around one or so, and she laid there in the dark, motionless, with nothing to do except change her underwear (which she did). She fought the urge to vomit all night, waiting for the sun to rise.

Another day is finally here, safe in the light, and she can't wait for it to be over. She's too tired for this.

Santana locks the door to the bathroom when she showers, and by the time she's out and dressed he's already left for work. She grabs a few pieces of toast on her way out the door and doesn't look her mother in the eye, waving to Angel waiting at the bus stop.

The school parking lot's pretty empty. Most kids aren't insane enough to show up this early.

(_Most kids don't let their daddy fuck them at night. Most kids don't fuck everyone else to deal with it)_

She breaks into the gym storage closet, throwing her bag down and laying down on the mats. Here, it's safe. No one will come in. No one will ever come in and the fluorescent lights are brightly shining down, keeping the monsters at bay…

Maybe she'll sleep there forever. At least until second period.

* * *

_This took a while since I wasn't sure how to handle it, really... it goes pretty quick, but I didn't know what else to do. Next chapter could be up anytime; stuffs starting to get exciting!_


	17. Rachel and Quinn

_Extermination _

_Rachel and Quinn_

"_Emotions scare me. Emotions signal a loss of control, and I have tried so hard and for so long to be in control of as many things as possible in my life." _

_Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns_

The early morning sun pierces her reflection in her side-view mirror as she fiddles with her car keys, key chains clinking against one another. Rachel observes other students filtering into the school from the parking lot. She's started making a habit of being the last one inside. It's easier that way.

Brittany parks her car near Santana's, looking around before heading indoors, sending a wave her way. Rachel waves back slowly, eyes drawn to Mercedes and Quinn walking side by side through the rows of cars, Quinn lightly holding her pregnant stomach, shirt sleeves pulled down tight even though it must be at least seventy degrees out, maybe warmer. Not that she's a good judge of temperature – she's cold all the time.

Suddenly Quinn turns her head, staring directly at Rachel, eyebrows knitted together. She flips down her visor to check her reflection, avoiding her gaze. Her last interaction with Quinn didn't go well; she doesn't need anymore experience. Anyone who wants to get in her way isn't important.

She enters the building three minutes after the first bell rings, because the hallways should be cleared out by then. The spit-shined tiles sway underneath her feet as she makes her way to homeroom – she gets dizzy a lot, especially since she eats as little breakfast as possible to keep her fathers happy.

In the morning Rachel wakes up at five to work out on her elliptical, like always. Brittany tells her she should wake up even earlier to get more exercise in, but she just can't drag herself out of bed. Brittany's a machine. She has coffee and orange slices for breakfast, and five carrot sticks and two saltine crackers for lunch and still makes it through Cheerios practice. She says coffee, gum, and willpower is all she needs. Rachel continues to eat her sandwiches and salads in the cafeteria, spending extra time in the bathroom later.

She _wishes_ she couldn't eat so much. It's just that… throwing up's sort of working for her. Why change now? It's a good scapegoat when she can't help eating. No one gets suspicious that way. No one asks Brittany why she doesn't eat lunch because people just assume she doesn't need to (of course she's skinny). People would ask her. How would she answer them? It's easier to please them and get rid of it later.

She sits through homeroom, sucking on lemon honey cough drops for her perpetual sore throat, gazing out the window. First period goes by without a hitch. During second period she jiggles her feet with Brittany to burn calories. The walk down the hallway to third, she has to steady herself against the wall. Someone offers her a brownie during history because it's culture day and everyone else is eating so she has to, and she's late to fourth period because she's in the bathroom throwing up.

That, and she runs into Quinn while leaving the bathroom, wiping her red lips on her sleeve.

"Oh. Hi, Quinn."

"Rachel. Are you okay?"

Why does she insist on always asking if _she's okay_? Doesn't she _look okay_? She's _perfectly fine_.

"I'm fine," she smiles.

"Your eyes are a little red…"

"Oh, you know, my allergies. It's pollen season."

She dodges around Quinn's shoulder, headed to class. She hears Quinn follow her. _Great_.

"Rachel, I think we need to talk-"

"Quinn, I'm late to math…"

"Please. I want to-"

"What? You want to _what_?" she turns around, a little too quickly. Rachel blinks furiously until the stars go away before continuing, "I know you've been a little depressed lately, but I'm sure Miss Pillsbury can help you – I certainly don't have the means to-"

"This isn't about… me. It's about you."

"_Please_. I think a pregnant, homeless teenager who writes on her arms in lieu of mutilating herself is a bit worse off than _me_."

"You know about that?"

"I'm observant."

Quinn huffs, shaking her head, "I just want to help you-"

"I really don't need any help."

She turns, leaving Quinn Fabray standing there in the dust, and says she was in the office to be excused for her tardiness. She rests her head on her arms through the rest of class, staring out the window at the trees swaying in the breeze.

Quinn doesn't go to class. She goes to the bathroom and gets out her marker. Then she goes to lunch and watches Rachel leave again, watches Finn stare after her, watches Puck not even look at her.

She leaves lunch early and knocks on Mr. Schuester's door.

Rachel sees Quinn enter Mr. Schue's office after lunch. It could be about anything, really, but her paranoia tends to get the best of her. Maybe they're involved in a secret, inappropriate relationship. Maybe Quinn's talking to him about her pregnancy and his crazy wife. _Maybe they're talking about her_. She almost thinks she's in the clear, until Mr. Shue asks her to stay behind after glee club is over for the evening. Quinn stays too. Her heart starts beating a little faster.

"What's this about?"

"Rachel… Quinn wanted us to talk. She thinks you have an eating disorder."

Her eyes go wide. She bites the inside of her cheek. Quinn sits in silence, her hands resting on her perfectly round stomach, "She's lying."

"Bullshit, Berry. I saw you."

The profanity slithers out of her pretty little mouth. Rachel sneers.

"I wasn't talking to you!"

"Ladies! Calm down, please," Mr. Schuester takes a breath, "Regardless, Rachel, maybe you should talk to someone about this. I could go get Miss Pillsbury, or-"

"I told you, I'm _fine_!"

Rachel sits with her legs crossed, foot bouncing up and down, arms gripping the edge of her chair. She does look a bit thinner, not by much though, her face a little bloated…

"Why would Quinn lie about something like this?"

"I don't know! She's probably jealous of my singing capabilities and the fact that Finn loves me and she's stuck with Noah."

"Please," Quinn rolls her eyes, "Do you really think I'm that shallow?"

"Yes."

Quinn clenches her fists, "I'm scared for you, Rachel! I thought we were becoming friends, I-"

"I have a hard time buying that you really want to be my friend, considering you used to torment me daily."

"That was before-"

"I doubt anything you say from here on will have a valid point. Mr. Shue, may I leave now?"

Her eyes are desperate, pleading. Quinn doesn't see the problem. She just wants to help her… after all, she was miserable on the Cheerios not eating.

Then again, how would she feel if someone told her she had to stop writing on her arms?

"I have to agree with Quinn, Rachel. You haven't looked well lately. If you-"

"So you're siding with _her_? I'm not sure why all of you think I have a problem, but I can assure you, everything is fine. Since when is losing a little weight unhealthy?"

"You throw up everything you eat!" Quinn shouts, standing up, "I know you don't want to listen to me, Rachel, but I've been there!"

She laughs, "You're just doing this so no one finds out about _you_! About how you're _depressed_ and _suicidal_!"

Quinn swallows, "We're not talking about me, Rachel."

Mr. Schue glances between the two of them. Now he's not sure _what_ he's suppose to do. Rachel could very well be lying as a defense, but Quinn hasn't exactly been the picture of health lately, either.

"Maybe we should be, since there's _nothing wrong with me_!"

"Come on, you-"

"Why don't you look at her arms? Look at them!"

"Rachel, shut up! Just _shut up_ and stop trying to get out of this!"

She storms out, eyes on fire, like so many times in the past, except this time it's different. She's running away.

"Rachel!" Quinn calls after her, but they let her go. She sighs, leaning against the piano,

"I'm not lying, Mr. Schuester. I heard her throwing up."

"I believe you Quinn. I think I'm going to talk to Emma about this…"

"She needs help."

"What about you? Was what she said true?"

She smiles a little, sadly, "I've just been stressed out lately. I haven't been sleeping much. It's okay."

She stays up all night trying to form some sort of prayer, but she can't. Every night it's the same. She folds her hands together and tries to think of something, anything, to say, but there are no words. She feels like a liar and a cheat and an idiot for talking to the air. Instead, she lays awake all night, fingers tracing over the razor underneath her pillow where her Bible once was.

"What was she talking about… with your arms?" he almost doesn't want to know. The falling star of glee club seems like enough drama for one day, but he supposes this is what he signed up for when he said he wanted to teach high school students.

"I just write stuff on my arms sometimes. No big deal."

"You're not cutting, are you?"

"No," she smiles. _Not yet anyway, _"No. Of course not. I'm just… really ready to not be pregnant anymore."

"Okay. You know you can talk to me."

"Thanks, Mr. Shue."

She leaves the room, footsteps echoing against the empty hallways, nails digging into her palms. Rachel tried to expose her. Well, what did she expect. An eye for an eye…

Makes the whole world blind. Now what is she supposed to do?


	18. Emma

_I am so, so sorry for the lack of updates! I started college, so I've been super busy! However, I'm going on break next week, and I'm determined to get some work done on this! Thank you so much for sticking with me!_

* * *

_Loss_

_Emma_

* * *

"_I had a secret. It was a guilty secret, certainly. But it was my secret. I had something to hold on to. It was company. It kept me calm. It filled me up and emptied me out." _

_-Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

Rachel has been in Emma's office before. Of course, none of those other visits really match up to today's.

The girl in front of her seems lost. Nervous. Her hands twitch in her seat, and every few seconds her eyes dart to a new place in the room. If Emma didn't know any better, she'd say the girl had a secret at best. Of course, she knows Rachel has something to hide. At least, that's what everyone says.

Will approached her yesterday in the teacher's room, where she was dutifully scrubbing her grapes, to ask her to make an appointment with Rachel. Something about being concerned about her well-being, with other students worried she was developing an eating disorder… of course every time Will spoke her heart did a little tap dance, and it was difficult for Emma to concentrate on conversation topics. Regardless, she found the claim quite alarming.

Rachel Berry was the last girl anyone would suspect of an eating disorder.

She clears her throat, and Rachel looks up as she slowly slides a pamphlet across her desk, _So You Like Throwing Up. _They really do have ridiculous titles…

"I'm sorry, Miss Pillsbury, but I don't need this."

"I'm just taking precaution, Rachel. When I hear claims like this, I must investigate…"

"Well they're lies."

"All right. So tell me, why would anyone think you're bulimic?"

"I don't have bulimia. Quinn Fabray is jealous of me and determined to ruin my life."

"Quinn Fabray, the pregnant girl? She's jealous of you?"

"Of course. Frankly, her life sucks. She's desperate for entertainment."

"Well. I'm sure you know, Rachel, that an eating disorder is a very serious problem not to be taken lightly. If you ever need to talk-"

"_I don't have a problem_."

The meeting doesn't get very far after that. But if Emma learns anything, it's quite obvious that Rachel Berry is notokay.

…

She sees Quinn Fabray in the hallway, very pregnant, struggling to get to class. A fistful of markers are clenched in her hand. Maybe she's working on an art project.

She remembers Will mentioning Quinn's change in attitude, how in a certain rage Rachel Berry claimed she was depressed, that she was cutting herself, or something of that sort.

For a minute, Emma wonders if she should call her in. Except the girl's probably just pregnant, and she has an appointment with a freshman boy whose parents just divorced in ten minutes.

There's an email in her inbox from the art teacher – permanent markers and exacto knives are missing from the supply closet.

Maybe that doesn't mean anything either.

…

Tina Cohen-Chang stumbles her way through Emma's office, looking for a way to get out of class.

"Why don't you want to go to class, Tina?" she asks as the girl picks at her fingernail polish, eyes rimmed with black.

"I don't want to see Mercedes."

"I thought Mercedes was your friend?"

"She is. She wants me to talk about things I don't want to talk about."

_Oh?_ "What kinds of things?"

"Um… nothing."

"You know anything you say in here in confidential."

She looks up, mouth faltering like she wants to form words but doesn't know how.

"I just get scared sometimes."

"Of what?"

"Everything."

She thinks about Will, about her long lunch breaks cleaning her food, about her countless showers scalding her body. She sees the dirt lined up everywhere, the control always skipping just out of reach.

"Yeah, I know how you feel."

…

Brittany wanders into her office by accident.

It's the end of the day. The Cheerio walks through her door and simply sits down in a cushioned chair. Emma looks up from her paperwork, thoroughly confused.

"Can I help you, Brittany?"

She cocks her head to the side, "I can't remember how to get to class."

"What do you mean?"

"My feet don't work right. I just saw your office and remembered that one time you helped me because I had a bird in my locker, so I came in."

Brittany is known for not exactly being the sharpest tool in the shed… "Would you like some help getting to class?"

She shakes her head, "I'm just really tired. Do you have a blanket?"

Emma blinks, "Why?"

"I'm cold. I'm always cold."

She reaches into her closet and pulls out an old patchwork quilt she keeps handy for when the heating system fails in the middle of January. Brittany takes it and curls up in a ball, her thin arms clutching the blanket to her chest.

Within five minutes, she's asleep. Emma continues softly typing on her computer, once in a while looking at the gaunt girl's frame heaving up and down.

…

Santana doesn't talk about her feelings with people. Usually she just talks _about_ other people, even Emma knows that. She's heard the girl spreading rumors more than once. Most might say she's a typical, if mean, teenage girl, at the top of the food chain. That would be the easy answer.

But Emma's heard from the gym teacher that he found Santana sleeping in the storage closet where they keep the mats. It's unusual behavior, so she calls the girl in for an appointment.

Of course, she doesn't show up. Emma waits in her office for forty-six minutes before she gives up and calls it a day.

Most people don't want to talk about their problems. She can understand that. After all, sometimes if you ignore it long enough, it's as if it doesn't exist.


	19. Regionals

_Demolition_

_Regionals_

* * *

"_This is what it must feel like to die underwater."_

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

She wipes her eyes and flushes the toilet in the dirty bathroom stall, unlocking the door and listening to her heels click against the tile floor. In the mirror she checks her eye liner and fluffs her hair and adjusts the straps on her gold dress.

In the auditorium she slips through crowds of people to get back to her seat. Brittany smiles at her. Finn grabs her hand.

That's right; she finally got what she wanted. So why does she still feel so empty?

Maybe because she just purged her lunch.

Rachel sings with all her heart, infused with the fact that Finn loves her. He really _loves her. _She keeps her head up and doesn't let her smile falter when her voice cracks.

It's just the flu. Bad timing and all that.

Her heart beats fast, faster than it ever has before. This is it. Finally, they've made it somewhere. Finally, she's going to prove everyone wrong.

They run offstage. Quinn's water breaks. Everything happens very fast, and suddenly they're gone and she's standing at the back of the auditorium watching the boy who broke her heart succeed.

It's not a pretty picture, and Finn texts her that it's a girl, and she meets her mother in a back room and why does everything have to hit her all in one day?

She's thirsty. Really thirsty. And her throat kills, and her head won't stop spinning.

She tells Shelby about the baby. She asks her to come to McKinley, in one last desperate attempt to gain something. Except she turns her down, just like everyone always turns her down. Because Shelby wants a life. _Without her._

Really, she should be used to no one wanting her by now.

Before she leaves, Shelby asks her if she's okay.

"Of course. I'm fine," she smiles, just like every other day, and no one sees through a thing.

Brittany's in the hallway, waiting for someone. She can't find Santana.

"She probably went to the hospital, Brittany."

"No. I looked. I would've gone with them, but I stayed because she went somewhere else. Where's Santana?"

…

"4.39 please."

A quarter, a dime, four pennies.

"Paper or plastic?"

She picks up the narrow white box, clenching it tightly in her fist.

"I'll just stick it in my purse."

…

Tina's never felt this… alive before. First performing, now the baby – it's a whirlwind. She didn't even get nervous performing in front of all those people. Probably because she was with everyone else – standing up on that stage all by herself would be a different story. With everyone else, it was exhilarating. She finally felt like she belonged with them… maybe that was why they were all a part of glee club in the first place.

The hospital waiting room is chilly and lined with beauty magazines from last year. Kurt looks over an old issue of _Seventeen: Prom Edition_, criticizing the dresses. Tina nods her head, ever conscious that Mike Chang is sitting on the other side of her, that Artie's across the room, that she's never told him about how she panics. He'd never understand. Quinn's busy giving birth and they're all just sitting here useless.

But that's usually how it is. She's always been pretty useless.

They lose the competition, and suddenly everything they worked so hard for doesn't seem all that special anymore.

…

Mom shows up to hear her sing, but she couldn't give a damn.

Turns out, Daddy's a sinner too. Maybe even worse than she is.

And then her water breaks.

Everyone rushes to the hospital. Quinn sees the world through jabs of pain as she shouts for Mercedes to come with her. Puck comes too even though she doesn't really want him there, but he asked politely enough, and her mother holds her hand and her mother wants to keep the baby…

And… she can safely say she doesn't know anything anymore. Just pain. Just… shit. Life is shit.

So she screams and screams. She screams out all her anger and sadness and hate. She screams while her greatest blessing and greatest curse enters the world, and swears at Puck while he stands there like a fucking idiot.

But when she sees _her_… well, she never knew God's punishment could look so beautiful.

Beautiful or not, she can't help feeling an incredible sadness as she watches her through the wire mesh window with Puck. She should be happy now… after all, she's not pregnant. The baby is out of her, a separate entity… she doesn't have to be her responsibility anymore.

"Do you want to keep her?"

"No."

This is what she wanted… if she's gone… well, maybe God will take her back.

But does the baby deserve to be condemned as the bastard child? And how will that be any different if she keeps her or not? She doesn't know anything anymore, except her whole world is stained with gray and she's a worthless whore, and all that really effects a person's rationality and ability to make decisions, "Do you?"

He doesn't answer. The silence says more than anything else ever could.

"Did you love me?"

"Yes. Especially now."

But she doesn't understand why, because no one loves her. She doesn't deserve love. _Stupid sluts who disobey everything they ever knew don't deserve anything._

So she signs the papers. They both do. Puck tells that woman, Shelby, Rachel's birth mom, that the baby's name is Beth.

She doesn't want to name her that, doesn't want to bind her like she is bound. Beth means "_devotion to God._"

How's that for ironic. How's that for pressure? Too many expectations. Too far to fall when she screws up.

Really, that just makes her destined to fail. Way to damn her before she even had a chance.

Maybe Shelby Corcoran names her Beth anyway. Quinn doesn't want to know.


	20. Rachel IV

_Abolition_

_Rachel_

* * *

"_Meanwhile, you are losing – yourself, your mind, and, most important, weight." _

_- Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns_

* * *

They didn't win.

They probably didn't win because of her. She's not very good at singing anymore. Her voice sucks. Everyone thinks so. Everyone hates her for taking up the spotlight. Her own mother doesn't want her – she's too ugly.

This is what Rachel thinks about as she eats cookie after cookie, slowly devouring one sleeve of the package, then another, and then another. Between that and large swallows from a jug of skim milk, her stomach feels like it's about to explode. So she leans over from where she's sitting on the bathroom floor, sticks her face in the toilet, and makes herself violently ill.

It hurts more than usual. When she pauses and opens her eyes, all she sees is red. Literally, red. Red blood stains her milk and cookies medley. Red blood droplets slide down the edge of the bowl. Red blood swims through her insides and outsides and all over the world.

She closes her eyes and keeps going until she's sure it's all gone. When it's over, she wipes the dripping blood off her lips onto the back of her hand. She stares at it for a long, long time.

…

They sing a sappy song to Mr. Schue. Everyone cries like it means something. Quinn's back in school but she doesn't look at anyone and her eyes suggest she hasn't slept since she gave the baby away. Brittany asks Rachel why her throat sounds so raspy, but Rachel just bites back and asks why Brittany can't walk in a straight line.

Honestly, she's getting pretty tired of this whole "losing weight together" deal. As if they were ever working together. Brittany's just good inspiration, even though looking at her body makes Rachel seethe with jealousy. Why is it so easy for her?

Why can't she just lose some damn weight? Why is everyone else so much _thinner than her_?

Finn sneaks cough drops into her locker and she smiles and says she just has a sore throat, nothing's wrong, perfectly happy over here. And she should be happy. She finally has Finn, doesn't she?

There's only three weeks left of school. 21 days, to be exact. Simple. Just make it through that and then she's home free. An entire summer to change. An entire summer to spend with thin and diets and no more binging, just lemons and water and sunglasses that make her nose look smaller…

Everyone's singing whatever they want in glee club since they don't have any competitions to prepare for, but she can't really sing anymore, so she watches everyone crowd around Puck's guitar and laugh and dance. Well, not everyone. Quinn sings to herself quietly in the corner, and Brittany sits in the middle of it all smiling away, probably because dancing makes her too dizzy but she'd never tell anyone.

And suddenly, she just really, really wants to go eat about a dozen candy bars and then puke. She stands up to leave, quickly, balancing herself by grabbing the back of her chair, and Finn grabs her arm, a look of surprise on his face as he realizes how much smaller her arm is.

"Are you okay, Rach?"

"I'm fine."

Her smile leaves a hollow reassurance as she disappears from the room.

…

Finn comes over after school. They lay on her bed, fashion magazine propped open in front of them. She flips through it idly, admiring the thin models with pursed lips. Her boyfriend is less than amused, but he doesn't complain.

"I want to look like that," she says softly, pointing to a tall blonde with a thin frame wearing a bright yellow bikini.

Finn looks puzzled. He doesn't see why she would ever want to look like that. Skin and bones chicks are kind of scary, not to mention completely abnormal. No one looks like that in real life.

"Why would you do that?" he asks, "You're beautiful the way you are."

She turns and looks at him like she's staring through a fog, coming out of a dream. She doesn't understand him. How can he not see it?

What the heart wants, the heart wants…

And Finn has no idea how many boxes of laxatives or breath mints or cans of air freshener she has stored underneath her bathroom sink (13, 27, and 4, respectively). He doesn't know about the candy stashed underneath her bed, in the back of her closet… He doesn't know a damn thing.

It's funny, she realizes, when you live in a world full of people, yet you're all alone, and no one even really knows you, the real you.

In fact, it's fucking hilarious.

* * *

_Please review! It means a lot to me! :)_


	21. Tina IV

_Invalidation_

_Tina_

* * *

"_Do I want to die from the inside out or the outside in?"_

_- Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson_

* * *

It's the worst day of Tina's life.

Not only does she have her first drive today for driver's ed, but Mercedes and Kurt are trying to rope her into some sort of end of the year slumber party.

Ugh; slumber parties. She doesn't go to slumber parties anymore, not since second grade when they played truth or dare and she had to let them cut off one of her pigtails. Tina spent the rest of the year with a hideous bob haircut she'd prefer to never, ever revisit. Not that Kurt or Mercedes would cut off her hair… but then again you never know. If anything, they'll probably force her to wear pink, or some hideous princess dress that's "all the rage" in Paris or Milan or some other far off place that she couldn't care less about.

She can't say she likes staying at other peoples houses, either. It's not that she misses her mom or anything – she's not five – she just gets _uncomfortable. _For instance, she hates eating food at other people's houses because she feels like she's imposing. She hates using the bathroom because she's afraid someone will walk in on her. She hates being out of place, really. It makes her nervous.

But she isn't sure if there's anyway she can get out of this.

"It'll be fun, I promise," Mercedes says as the last bell rings and they journey down the hallway to their lockers, "Trust me, Kurt loves doing facials and watching old movies and gossiping. It's awesome."

"I don't know. I don't… like parties."

"It's not even a party, really. Just you, me, and Kurt."

She swallows, stopping at her locker as Mercedes continues on.

"Um… I'll think about it."

"You'd better," she smiles, disappearing around the corner.

…

At four pm, Tina finds herself sitting in the parking lot of the drivers ed building with her mother. The car pulls into the parking lot, the name of the driving school written across the back, and the kid scheduled before her climbs out of the seat and walks over to the other car on the lot, climbing in and greeting his father. She tries to take deep breaths in and out, but her chest feels like it's about to collapse.

"Well, you'd better get going," her mother says gently, "I'll see you in two hours."

She says goodbye and opens the car door, slamming it behind her and begins the dreadful walk to the drivers ed car. Once she's there, she gets in and looks over at the middle aged man bent over a clipboard in the passenger seat.

"You must be Tina," he smiles, "Tina Cohen-Chang?"

"Um, yeah," she shakes his outstretched hand, "That's me."

"I'm Tim. Pleased to meet you! We'll be spending a lot of time together. I run all the drives while Rich runs the classes, though I'm sure he told you that already. Now first thing's first – do you know how to drive?"

Well, that seems like a stupid question – she's here to _learn how _to drive… "Um… I know the basics?"

He chuckles a little, "You know the difference between the brakes and gas? Your blinkers? The gear shift?"

"Yeah, I think so…"

"Just checking. Some kids don't even know their left from their right. Well, now you gotta buckle up and adjust the seat and the mirrors."

She does it easily enough, not embarrassing herself at all. Once she's ready, Tim has her shift into drive and pull out of the parking lot.

"Just so you know, I have a break on my side. I'm sure I won't need it though."

Great. More pressure. She'll be the idiot who messes up and causes them to crash in a ditch…

She pulls out into the mostly deserted road. Kurt said on the first day they take out outside of town where there's not much traffic, show you the basics of staying the speed limit and not drifting over to the wrong side of the yellow lines… it should be simple…

Except in her head all she sees is trees and cars and crashing and explosions and blood. She doesn't trust herself, or anyone else, and she doesn't trust that Rich mans is brake properly. Her chest gets tighter and tighter as they drive along, trying her best to awkwardly keep up with Rich's small talk. She hates small talk and it's not making the situation any better. Not that silence would make it better, either. Nothing can really make this _better_.

By the time the two hours are over, her palms are sweaty, her heart feels like it's about to jump out of her chest, and she's having difficulty breathing. Except she hides it the best she can, finally letting go of her death grip on the steering wheel once they're safely in the parking lot.

"You did great, Tina. A little nervous, but everyone is their first time driving."

She did _great. _That means she probably actually did horrible. He's just being nice.

She can't get over the fact that they didn't die. Because the entire time, she was convinced they were going to die. They were going to crash at any moment, or someone was going to crash into them, or the car was going to burst into flames…

"I'll see you next time."

She leaves, trying to control her pace as she reaches her mother and climbs into the car, relieved to not be the one in control.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine."

At home, she grabs her ipod, turns it up full blast, and locks herself in the bathroom, sitting on the tile floor against the wall.

Finally, she lets her breath go, and her chest heaves up and down and she feels like she's choking. She feels the tears streaming down her face as she tries to breathe again, in an out…

The world is falling in on itself enternally. _She's going to die._


	22. Santana and Brittany

Happy Holidays everyone! Sorry this chapter took a little bit, but it's quite long and I've been dealing with some personal issues. The good news is: the plot really starts moving from here on out! Consider it a gift from me to you!

* * *

_Liquidation_

_Santana and Brittany_

* * *

"_Scrape scrape goes the knife. Scrape scrape goes my life. I am a human abortion. I am nothing."_

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

It's seven in the morning. Santana stands on the sidewalk in the early morning dew, nauseous, cursing her cheap family with no auto insurance. Only a week left of school and her car won't start, so she has to wait for Brittany to come pick her up. Not exactly a big deal, but she'd rather have Britt see her house as little as possible. Her dad isn't home, but still. She likes to be the strong one. This makes her look anything but strong.

Not to mention she's been throwing up all morning, for the fourth week in a row, and this isn't the way to end the school year. This isn't the way to end anything.

Her backpack contains a change of clothes, schoolbooks, gum, and three hundred and fifty dollars. Today, she aims to get business done. Plenty of business. Even business she wishes she never had to deal with…

"Need a ride, babycakes?" Brittany shouts out the window as she pulls into the driveway. Santana smiles and gets into the car.

Brittany looks pale, with dark circles under her eyes and gaunt cheekbones. She wonders if she should let her drive, but it is her car… Brittany would protest if she suggested she couldn't do it.

"Are you feeling alright, Britt?"

"Of course," she flashes a smile, bony fingers gripping the steering wheel as she backs out into the road, "I'm fine."

"Okay…" Santana says easily, and brushes blonde clumps of hair off of the center console. Brittany's hair…

Maybe she'll buy her a burger at lunch… for the first time, Santana's realizing her best friend doesn't look so good…

…

In the middle of class, the room starts to go starry right in front of Brittany's eyes.

She blinks a few times, but they still won't go away. It's like someone just launched her into space and the darkness is slowly eating away at her vision. Which is funny, because she hasn't eaten anything since yesterday morning. Just water and two vitamin C drops. 30 calories. That ought to help her finally lose some fat.

She just sits and stares, finally laying her head down on top of the desk and closing her eyes. No one says anything. She usually doesn't pay attention in class.

The bell rings. People start to move. She picks up her head and looks around. Everything _looks_ okay. Slowly, she stands up, gathers her books, and walks out of the room.

All of the people look like they're floating and she's walking on air.

Her steps are hesitant and no one looks familiar. Finn's over there, just outside the door, next to her somewhere… they're in the same class. She can almost see him, standing there, a little bit worried… no one should be worried… she's fine… always fine…

The hallway is… moving. It's spinning around in circles, and she's pretty sure she isn't. Well, maybe, but everything only moves like this when she's at Cheerios practice doing backflips. Why would she be dancing in the middle of the hallway?

Now what? Santana isn't here. That's bad. Santana always knows what to do.

"Britt? Are you okay?"

She knows she should say something to… whoever that is, but her mouth isn't working. The room's moving again, this time even faster, and the floor is swallowing her up. She sees black stars dancing everywhere, like little ants, as they swarm over her vision and she can't see anymore so she closes her eyes, feeling the cold tile against her cheek.

Everything stops and the noises sound far away. Maybe she's _dying_. Well she can't _die. _That's not _fair. _She's not _skinny and pretty _yet.

Somebody's talking to her, telling her to wake up. She can't. She's underwater, being dragged farther and farther down. There aren't any fish, or dolphins. She likes dolphins.

There's a screeching noise, and then everything is gone.

…

Santana watches Brittany fall from down the hallway, and she immediately blames herself.

She should've been there to catch her. She should've been there from the very beginning.

She follows Finn as he carries her to the nurse's office and explains she fainted. They lay her down on a cot and she's still not waking up and what if something's really wrong?

"Her blood sugar's low," the nurse says, writing numbers down in her booklet, "When she wakes up, I'll have her drink some orange juice."

Santana doesn't really care. She just wants her best friend to get up and stop scaring her.

"Has she been losing weight? I haven't weighed her yet, but she seems below average for her height."

"Um… I hadn't really noticed," she shrugs. Sure, she doesn't eat sometimes, but that's just part of being a Cheerio. Isn't it?

Except Brittany's getting thin and sick, and she never eats in front of her anymore… and she should've noticed. She should've helped her, but she didn't. Instead, she was wrapped up in her own stupid problems…

"I'm going to go on my lunch break. I'll let you stay with her if you page me when she wakes up."

Santana nods, sitting down next to the bed and grabbing Brittany's hand. She's cold. Her hands feel bony, and she doesn't know why she's just realizing it now. She looks sick, plain and simple.

Why didn't she ever do anything? Why didn't she ever _talk_ to her? Brittany always used to be weird about her body, ever since they met. Her mom was certainly a whack job when it came to weight and food. But she thought Brittany grew out of it… she thought she was better, until now.

But she's not eating. Of course she's not eating, and Santana should've stopped it. She should be able to help her.

Suddenly, slowly, Brittany opens her eyes, looking up.

"Santana?"

"Brittany!" she says quickly, gripping her hand, "You're awake."

"What happened?"

"You passed out… the nurse said your blood sugar's low. She wants you to drink orange juice."

"No… no juice," she mumbles. She can't have juice. Juice will make her fat, "Let's just leave."

"Britt… you're sick. We shouldn't."

"Santana, she'll weigh me and then she'll call my parents and they'll send me away!" everyone thinks she's stupid, but she's smart enough to know that much. She's smart enough to realize other people are going to stop her, but not Santana. Never Santana.

"So what…" she trails off, thinking. They can leave. No one can stop them. They can just _leave._ They won't even be missed, not for a good long while, "Okay. Let's go."

It's a split second decision, but she isn't really thinking rationally anymore. She just knows she can't let anyone take Brittany away.

She steadies her friend with her body and they make it to the parking lot without running into anyone who would ask questions. Santana forces Brittany to give her the keys and they both change out of their cheerleading uniforms in the backseat. No one can recognize them where they're going. Maybe they won't even go back home. Santana knows she wouldn't be missed.

"Where are we going?" Brittany asks from the passenger seat once they're ready and Santana starts the car, backing out of the lot.

"I have a doctor's appointment. Then…I don't know what we're going to do."

"Can we run away, San? Just you and me?"

She looks at the girl from the corner of her eye. Her face is sunken and pale. It's obvious Brittany's not eating, but what is she suppose to do? If she doesn't take her somewhere, they both know she's going to get locked up in some psych ward, just like she said. And the more she thinks about it, and if Brittany feels the same, going off and living together by themselves doesn't sound so bad.

"You know, that sounds like a great idea."

It's the first time she's seen her smile in months. But Brittany's smile falters when they pull into the clinic's parking lot.

"San…" she glances down at the girl's stomach, then at her face, "What are we doing here?"

"I have an appointment, Britt."

She grips the steering wheel. She was planning on going alone, but with Brittany wanting to leave, she just ended up bringing her along. Hopefully it wasn't a mistake.

"But… this is the baby clinic. Are you going to have a baby?"

"Sort of."

Her face twists into confusion, and then Brittany looks like she wants to cry, "Are you going to kill the baby?"

She gives a little half-nod, fiddling with the car keys.

"But… we could keep it! You could be just like Quinn and I'd be Puck, except we'd keep her instead of giving her away!"

She can't deny that she thinks about it, even for just a second. (_She'd have a little baby to raise somewhere far away, happily ever after with her best friend_-)

But then it's gone, because that's not reality. If she kept the baby, it would look just like _him _and she wouldn't be able to stand it. They'd have no money and live in some shithole where girls get gang raped in alleyways. That isn't a life for a child, even an incest mutant one.

Maybe she's a coward for doing this. So be it. There's no other way.

At sixteen, she simply can't give birth to her father's bastard child.

She laughs, just a little, "I'm not Quinn, B. I can't raise a baby. I couldn't even look at it, especially if it's…"

"Oh. Did… I mean…" she searches for the right words. Santana had told Brittany her father wasn't nice, but she'd never explained it to her. One day, Brittany just added it all up. Santana discovered a long time ago that she's smarter than she seems, "You're scared it's your dad's?"

She knows Santana's dad does awful things to her. That's why she sleeps with so many other guys. Brittany thinks it's so she can forget.

"Yeah. And I'm not giving birth to some mutant spawn with three toes," Santana takes the keys from the ignition and opens the door, "Are you coming in or do you want to stay outside?"

"But San, you don't know that will happen. It could be a really cute baby, like a puppy! I'd help you! We'd be like a little family!"

"_Shut up_, Brittany!"

(_Don't make this any harder than it already is_)

"But-"

"Do you want me to make you eat?" It's a low blow, but effective, and Brittany's face turns to stone.

"No."

"Okay. Then you let me do this, and I won't make you eat anything," she really shouldn't be promising something like that, but Brittany would never shut up otherwise.

"Okay," she says, gets out of the car, and takes Santana's hand, "Let's go."

"You're coming in with me?"

"I don't want you to be alone."

"Well… thanks."

Really, Brittany doesn't blame her for not wanting a baby. Santana's dad is mean. Like, really, really mean. They're sort of the same, because Brittany wants to get rid of all of her fat. That way, she can be a different person. Brand new.

Erase it all, pretend it doesn't exist, and live a carefree future away from everyone who dragged her down.

She smiles as they walk across the parking lot. After this, they're free. They're leaving. They're going to be together forever, and for Brittany, that's always been enough.

* * *

"'_If you run away, you have to let me find you.'"_

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

Please, tell me, was Santana's pregnancy totally out of the blue? I tried to drop clues, but maybe the chapters were uploaded so few and far between that it didn't work the way I wanted it to... which is alright, I don't mind taking you all by surprise... anyway, tell me what you think!


	23. Rachel and Tina

_Crush_

_Rachel and Tina_

* * *

"_Eating disorders linger so long undetected, eroding the body in silence, and then they strike. The secret is out. You're dying."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

There's four days left of school, and Rachel feels sicker than she ever has in her life.

She'd be fine if it was just the killer sore throat, but oh no, it's not just that. She's got a headache that won't go away no matter how many painkillers she swallows, and she's so tired it's hard to stand up. The world tilted on its axis and is dragging her under.

She hasn't kept a bit of food down in at least a week. It used to be that she only purged after binges. Now, it's every time she eats. Even salads or vegetables. Sometimes even when she drinks too much water, and maybe that's crazy, but she just can't stand feeling _full. _

She would stay home, but going to school burns more calories, and going to school keeps up appearances. Rachel can't go disappearing on anyone, especially since, apparently, no one's seen Santana or Brittany since yesterday afternoon.

What she doesn't understand is: where could they have gone? How far could they have gotten, where ever they are? Finn told her Brittany fainted yesterday, dropped her off in the nurses office, and then no one saw them again.

Furthermore, why didn't Brittany tell her? They'd been into sharing secrets lately, so why didn't Brittany tell her of her plot, unless it wasn't planned? She probably got tired of her. Probably finally realized that she wasn't worth her time. After all, Brittany can lose weight. Brittany's thin. Brittany has control. Rachel can do none of those things.

But right now she doesn't care about much of that, because sitting in the lunch room among crowds of people, she's having trouble not dropping her head onto the table and passing out.

Everyone's conversation floats around her. She can't really hear it, but it seems like it mainly focuses on the whereabouts of the two missing members of the glee club. Quinn's the only one who seems to hold as little of concern over them as Rachel does, simply picking at the food in front of her, and from time to time glaring at Rachel's fluttering, hazy eyes.

Quinn knows far more than she should. Good thing she seems to be far too distraught over her suddenly shrunken belly, or Rachel has a feeling she'd jump on top of the table right about now and point out to everyone just how pale and frail their former star is looking.

Under different circumstances, she thinks, the two of them probably could've been quite good friends.

Slowly, she eats the rest of the food in front of her, keeping her hands in her lap between bites so no one notices that they're shaking. If she was better at starving, she just wouldn't eat, except she can eat and her body wants to eat, and her brain wants to throw up, so why not just satisfy everyone?

She ends her lunch period in the bathroom while everyone else continues on to class, just like every other day. This time, dizziness hits her when she tries to stand up, and she grips the edges of the sink for a good ten minutes before she's ready to leave, eyes bloodshot, face puffy, throat raspy. She leans against the wall all the way down the hallway before she straightens up to enter her classroom.

Mercedes passes her a note asking if she's okay, because her eyes are really, _really _red. She tells her she's fine, wondering why she didn't try to clean herself up a bit before leaving.

Maybe she's just too tired to care.

…

Rachel and Tina have their last period class together, so they end up walking to the choir room together. Of course, they don't talk much, because Tina doesn't talk. She used to listen to Rachel babble on and on about some topic or another, and was perfectly content to listen to her rambling, but those days are long gone. They're both silent now, Rachel slowly growing a bit thinner and weaker as the year went on. Tina never really knew what to say, so she chose to say nothing.

After all, she certainly wouldn't want someone bothering her about why it's impossible for her to talk in class, so she won't bother Rachel about whatever she's going through.

Today, however, seems different. The girl who used to shine the brightest is looking very, very sick. Tina can't help noticing the way she stays close to the wall as she walks, bushing her hand against the metal lockers, almost in case she trips and falls. She's pale and tired-looking, with sunken eyes and shaky eyes.

When she stops, trembling, Tina finally decides she should probably speak up. Maybe she just as the flu. She certainly doesn't look good… at all.

"Rachel?"

"Hmm?" she hums softly, not even turning her head.

"Are you… okay?" Tina takes a few steps forward, trying to get a look at Rachel's face. Her eyes look like they're about to pop out of her head.

Rachel thinks about all the implications of that question, but decides to ignore all that and begins to sink.

"Sorry, I just… don't feel very good," she leans against the row of lockers, propping her head in her hands.

"Well can you at least make it to glee? Then you can sit down and… well…" Tina trails off. Rachel begins to slide down to the floor.

"I'm just… really dizzy."

"I'll go… get someone? Yeah."

Tina's running off before anyone can stop her, unsure of what to do. Rachel sits with her back pressing into the cool metal, hallway spinning.

The doorway pops up sooner than Tina expected, sooner than she really knows what she's supposed to say. But Rachel looks like… well, she hates to say it, but almost like she's dying or something. It's really no time for her to be worried about the way the words sound coming out of her mouth. So she just says it, breathing a little ragged from the sprint, all heads in the room turned to her.

"Rachel's sick. I need help," she spits out, trying to keep calm under the stare of far too many eyes. This is more important, "She's in the hallway."

Puck and Finn follow her to where Rachel is sitting, eyes fluttering open and closed. She looks washed out and her face seems a little bloated. Tina suddenly remembers the rumors Quinn was spreading, or rather the rumors the two of them were spreading about each other. Maybe it wasn't a rumor after all… maybe they all should've been paying more attention…

"Hey Rach," Finn says softly, leaning over to pick her up. Puck reaches down to help, but he brushes him away, "It's okay. She doesn't weigh that much."

_He's just being nice. I weigh far too much. _Rachel's mind reels as she sees the scenery changing. They enter the choir room and she is placed into a chair. The questions fire into her.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you hungry?"

"I have a granola bar."

"What about orange juice? I bet your blood sugar is terrible."

"I'm just… dizzy," she mumbles, bending over and placing her head in her lap, "I'll be fine." She's probably just dehydrated again. She's always dehydrated. It'll pass like it always does.

"Rachel, I think you need to go to the nurse," Mr. Schue suggests.

"No. No nurse."

"Then you need to eat something."

"Fine," she lifts her head and reaches for the granola bar someone extended. Everyone starts to shift away as she opens the shiny packaging, trying not to stare as she eats it slowly in ten bites and then drinks the juice box someone was carrying around. For a minute she wonders which of her fellow glee club members still brings snacks like preschool. She'd assume it was Brittany if she didn't know better about the girl's eating habits. Lucky bum. Rachel bets she never has this problem. Throwing up messes with you way more than starving does.

Five minutes. Give them five minutes to get distracted and then she can excuse herself and get rid of it.

They're working on choreography and she's standing uneasily in the back, trying to fake wellness even though her head still hurts. It must be that damn granola bar. Should she ask to go to the bathroom? Then everyone will notice. It's better if she just quietly slips out…

She makes it down the hallway and into the bathroom before anyone follows her, and for a moment there is sweet silence. She leans over the toilet and flexes her throat muscles and the food appears, hardly digested. Of course, then Quinn shows up like clockwork. It's really starting to piss her off. No, wait, she passed pissed off eons ago. Now she's furious.

Then again, why is Quinn even _here_? Why does she even care? She seemed perfectly fine to stay in her own little world only a few hours ago…

"Rachel, stop it!"

As if she even knows what she's saying. As if she even knows what the hell is going on anymore.

"Get away! Just get away from me!" she pushes Quinn into the bathroom sink, screaming at the top of her lungs. She's seen girls get interrupted during a purge in the movies, but it's never actually happened to her. Instead of crying, she just gets pissed. And strong, apparently, because she just somehow managed to shove Quinn Fabray away from her.

"Hey!" Finn and Mr. Schuester come bursting through the bathroom door.

For a second, she stupidly thinks that they're not allowed in the girls room. Then she wonders why they're all here, because no one's supposed to care about her. She goes completely cold and doesn't see anyone anymore.

And then Rachel Berry, perfect, determined, screwed over, Rachel Berry, collapses onto the tile floor.

And begins convulsing like a condemned epileptic girl.

Quinn gasps, gripping the edges of the sink until her knuckles turn white. It only lasts for a few seconds, maybe half a minute at the most, but it seems like hours. Mr. Schuester tells them not to touch her and gets out his cell phone.

"Hello, this is William Schuester calling? I'm here at William McKinley High School, and I believe one of my students has just had a seizure."

And there it is. Everyone finally sees her for who she is. Just a cold girl lying unconscious on the floor, with her own guilt and bile festering a few feet away in the toilet.

And no, do not doubt it. To her, bones are still worth every single tear they shed.

…

Tina watches as the EMTs take Rachel away. No one knows what to do with themselves. It's surreal, just seeing her lying there. Everyone's thinking the worst but too scared to say it. Finn looks like he's about to cry while Quinn huffs in the corner, picking at her sleeves. No one really wants to talk, so Mr. Schue ends glee club early.

She waits for her mom in the parking lot, not even sure what to feel. She wasn't close to Rachel, maybe not even friends, but she knew her… _knew her. _Like she's dead or something.

She's not… she can't be. That just wouldn't make sense. But she's sick. She must be sick. That's what Mr. Schue said; they suspected she's been making herself throw up.

Well, then why didn't anyone say anything?

Why hasn't anyone said anything about her?

Why hasn't _she _said anything?

…

Rachel wakes up to beeping machines and nurses clad in scrubs. She wakes to tears from her family and her friends.

She wakes in the middle of a war between her body and her mind.

They tell her in statements, in whispers, in salt-drenched sobs. She is dehydrated, low electrolytes, low calcium, low phosphate. Her esophagus is torn and bleeding. Her kidneys and liver are pale and sickly. Her stomach is thinking of digesting itself. Her teeth are swimming in her own acid. The doctors don't say it's an eating disorder, because no one wants to jump to conclusions, and Rachel will not open her mouth to tell them anything, but anyone who knows her can see the truth.

Her fathers cry. So does Finn, but at least he says something. Most of them don't say a word.

The doctors break it down for everyone, syllable by syllable, sparing no fragile hearts:

The determined, strong Rachel Berry is skipping her way towards death. If she doesn't stop, her heart and her stomach and her liver and her kidneys will wave goodbye. There will be no more singing. Dead bodies with torn throats do not sing. They only wheeze and weep.

So that's what she does. She cries for her losses without gains. She cries because she's making them cry.

She cries because these idiots are making her fat.

And really, that's the only thing on her mind as she's left there all alone overnight, room illuminated by the constant lighting in ICU. _Just how, oh how, is she going to get out of this one?_


	24. Quinn V

_Slaughter_

_Quinn_

* * *

"We have all lost, and sometimes given away, so much."

- Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns

* * *

Quinn steps back into her home for the first time since she got kicked out after she gives birth. She sleeps in her own bed again on crisp clean sheets. Her mother cooks her breakfast at the same old dining room table. She places eggs and bacon and tea in front of her and smoothes back her hair. Quinn just stares into space.

It's been maybe two weeks since then, but nothing feels the same. Not like it used to.

She didn't think it'd be exactly the same. Her father isn't here, and there's a new white and pink crib in the basement her mother bought in excitement. But she thought she'd feel the same. That maybe her life would go back to normal. She'd be the little angel again, like the whole year had never happened.

After all, the baby ruined her life. The baby's gone. Except she misses the baby a little bit, so that doesn't make any sense. She'll just keep telling herself she doesn't miss it, doesn't want to hold it, doesn't regret a thing (hence caling her, "it")… maybe then it will become true.

After all, no one ever talked about her father's infidelity for a good long while, and so it wasn't true. She didn't tell anyone she was pregnant, and so it wasn't true. Of course, both those things couldn't be hidden for long, because they were true all along, and slowly revealed themselves to the world. She'll just conveniently forget about that part.

But sitting on her bed and staring at the walls, she sees how much has changed. It's like stepping into a portal, taking her back nine months. Pictures of the Cheerios still hang around the room. Her old clothes sit in the dresser, untouched. Her life pre-pregnancy, pre-Puck, pre-everything sits there on the shelf, untouched.

Except she's not that girl anymore, and she doesn't _want _to be this girl, so who is she?

Right now, she's just the girl who gave away her baby. The girl who sinned, the girl who failed. The girl who watched Rachel Berry fall down and didn't do enough to help her back up. Everything's her fault.

A part of her wonder's how Rachel's doing, even wants to visit a little bit, but she can't. She just can't. They're not exactly friends but they don't hate each other, and it's just an awkward relationship. Besides, Rachel shoved her, which means she really wasn't very happy with her butting in… though Quinn wouldn't be very happy with anyone butting into her life, either…

Still, watching her have a seizure was terrifying. Almost as terrifying and miserable as her father kicking her out or Finn screaming at her.

What if she's dead? No, someone would've called if she died… someone certainly would've said something.

She doesn't know what to do with herself anymore. There's nothing _to _do, really. School's over. She doesn't really have any friends to talk to. Brittany and Santana ran away somewhere and no one's found them yet, not they would've talked to her anyway. Puck certainly doesn't want to see her, not that she asked, but still. They haven't really spoken much since the baby was born… he probably hates her. Everyone hates her.

Most days she doesn't get out of bed, but when her mother drags her downstairs to eat or shower or get dressed, she stares at the wall or the same TV channel for four hours, oblivious to anything going on around her. It's hard to pay attention when she's always lost in her own thoughts.

Quinn finds it strange that she can barely feel anything anymore. It's been like that for a while, but since Regionals it's only gotten worse. People speak and she doesn't know how to respond. Her mother pats her on the shoulder and her body doesn't know what to do with the sensation of touch. Her entire self just feels completely numb, so numb she can sit and do nothing for hours on end, thinking about all she's lost and everything that's all her fault.

There's too much going on inside her head. She's trying to forget about the baby and Puck, so of course she keeps thinking about them. She keeps remembering the way the baby (_Beth… _but no, she refuses to call it something real) felt in her arms, the way it stung just a little to sign her name on that piece of paper, but she pushed it away and walked out of the room, determined to forget all about it. She remembers the way she pinched her arm to keep herself from crying and brushed Puck's hand away as they handed the baby to Shelby. She remembers writing twenty more insults on her skin that night, wondering why everything felt so separate from her.

Is this God's punishment? To make her miserable? Does she really deserve anything better?

Well no. Not really. She doesn't deserve anything. Her father hates her. Finn hates her. Puck probably hates her. The baby will grow up to hate her. God hates her. Everyone else feels sorry for her. She herself doesn't feel a thing.

A knife finds its way into her pocket and up the stairs, hidden in her bedside drawer. It was an impulse, but the impulse never faded. It whispers at night when she reaches for a marker or another pill, or when she looks at her reflection. It taunts her ever so softly, and curiously she wonders what would happen if the sharpened blade grazed her skin.

_Would she still bleed? Is there any blood inside her, or is that gone, too?_

She completely empty of everything. Maybe it wouldn't matter if she bled at all. Maybe it wouldn't even hurt. It'd just be like turning on the faucet and watching it all drain away.

It sounds much more peaceful than it should, and in a better time, Quinn would've been scared of herself. Now, it's just a clean blank slate. Waiting. For what, she doesn't know. She just wants something to make her feel better. Anything.


	25. Rachel V

_Abolish_

_Rachel_

* * *

"_It's not my fault she puked, or that puking was the only thing that made her feel better."_

_- Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson_

* * *

After her first night, Rachel finds the hospital incredibly dull. After all, it's just a routine. The nurse checks her vitals every hour. She stares out the window or at TV infomercials. Her dads stay with her most of the day, creating chatter, not even attempting to ask just how she got so sick. No one asks, and she's not telling.

Of course, she's done research on this. They have to give you a psychiatric evaluation and a physical evaluation to determine if you have an "eating disorder" – which she doesn't. No one's testing her for anything right now; they're just trying to get her stable. Once that happens, she'll probably go home, no questions asked.

Curious minds still wonder, and she can't control other people's thoughts. That's a problem. Sooner or later, there will be inquiries. Just how she will deflect them is still a mystery.

Right now, she hates the drip in her arm, pumping her full of water, full of weight. She hates the fact that she's required to eat three meals a day, and if she doesn't people will start asking questions. She hates her stupid body for failing and putting her here. She hates everyone.

Really, she just wants to be left alone.

But no, she can't be alone. Not only is she trapped by nurses and doctors, but she can't escape from visitors. And today, while her fathers are on their afternoon coffee break in the hospital cafeteria, Finn comes wandering in, bouquet of flowers in tow.

"Hey, Rachel," he smiles, coming over to her bedside and leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.

Really, she loves him. She's always loved him. She just never wanted him to see her like this.

"Finn. You came?"

"Of course I came. I'd kinda be a jerk if I didn't visit my girlfriend in the hospital."

She stares at the IV in her forearm, "It's just a little embarrassing to have you see me so helpless."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed," he reaches out and takes her hand, "You're going to get better and we'll have the whole summer together. That's all that matters."

Rachel squeezes his hand softly and the two sit in silence. She wonders just how he can be so calm about the situation. How he can still care about her when she was weak enough to get herself put in here. She was going to be great. She was going to lose weight and be everything he wanted and win every award… and now she's here. She's stuck here. A failure.

"I don't care if you're fat."

"… excuse me?" her face pales. _He thinks she's fat._

"I looked it up… everything says that's not really what this is about. It's not about me. I just thought you should know. I don't care what you look like. I still love you, and I'm not gonna abandon you."

"That's… _sweet_, Finn, but there's nothing wrong with me."

"But Quinn-"

_Quinn. _Of course it's Quinn. Everything seems to go back to Quinn…

"Quinn lied."

"Rachel… you're sick. I really don't think she'd make all that up…"

"Oh, so you're siding against me now?"

"No… I'm not. I'm just worried…"

"You have no reason to be worried."

"You're in the hospital!"

"And I'm going home in a few days and I'll be fine!"

He doesn't say anything to that. She looks him in the eyes, reaching out to brush his cheek. He flinches a little at her gauze covered, needle infested hand, but reaches up and grabs it anyway.

"Listen… I love you, and we're going to be okay, I promise."

For once, she means it. At least, she wants to mean it. She wants it to be okay. If everything goes according to plan, it will be.

She's going to get out of here, and she's going to get thin. She's going to have it all.

* * *

_Sorry this one's short!_


	26. Santana and Brittany II

Sorry this one took a little while!

* * *

_Slay_

_Santana and Brittany_

* * *

"_I wanted proof that I was alive and with her."_

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

They drove until sunset, just them and the highway, nothing but miles and miles of road in front of them. Santana drove while Brittany rolled the windows down and turned up the radio, masking her fatigue with the excitement of leaving. Her skeletal arms moved back and forth, dancing in the seat, and Santana laughed despite the pulsing in her lower abdomen. Everything was going to be okay. They were together. They were okay.

It's been three days since then. They've made some ground, but not enough. Brittany's not fit to drive, so Santana has to do all the driving herself, meaning they spend nights at motels. Since yesterday, they've been stuck in the same one because Brittany can barely walk to the car without falling over so Santana refuses to travel with her so sick. The air between them is thick and conversation is limited.

Of course, Brittany doesn't see why they can't just _go. _There's nothing wrong with her; she's just a little queasy. Everything would be fine if they kept going… she knows she'll feel better once they're far enough away and she's sure no one will ever find them.

She certainly _won't _feel better if Santana keeps shoving food at her like she's a stupid, fussy two year old.

"Please eat something, Britt."

They're sitting in a diner next to the motel. Santana orders a burger, fries, and a diet coke, while Brittany orders ice water. She slowly sips from it, ignoring the fact that the smell of grease is penetrating her brain. Sipping it slowly shows she has control over herself, even though it smells _so good…_

Slowly, she puts a single french fry in her mouth.

"More."

Right. Just like everyone else, all her best friend wants is to plump her up for slaughter.

She picks up another two and swallows them without chewing. Santana sighs and takes another bite from her burger, "Fine."

"You _promised_, San," promised she wouldn't make her eat, promised she'd take her away. Promised she'd save them…

"I know I did, and it was a stupid idea. We're not gonna get anywhere with you passing out all the time."

Right, because everything's her fault. As if she could forget…

"I'm fine," her finger traces patterns in the table top, "Where are we going?"

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere else. With you."

Every place she's ever been is better when Santana's with her. It doesn't really matter where they go. They'll be happy together. They'll be free _together. _They just have to get there first…

Santana picks up a french fry drenched in ketchup, chewing thoughtfully. Brittany shudders.

"How about California?"

"Like where the movie stars are? That's far away."

"I know, but we could make it. You could be a dancer, Britt. A real one on TV and everything!"

Maybe that won't happen, now that Brittany's starving her talent away, but Santana knows she has to sell it to her. California seems like a pretty good shot. After all, both of them have a chance there, and it's about as different as Ohio as you can get. About as far away from Ohio as you can get without a plane, too. That doesn't hurt.

"As long as we're together, I'm okay."

Santana smiles, picking up her drink and clinking it against Brittany's glass, "To Hollywood, babe."

Brittany smiles through her jitters, just enough to erase the sickness on her pale, gaunt face.

…

They make the sticky, humid walk across the parking lot back to their motel room. Brittany falls down twice. Santana picks her back up again, but she always brushes away her arm, like she doesn't want to need her.

Santana watches her shoulder blades protrude from her back, her spine stick out at the base of her neck as she picks her head up. She wonders how the hell she could've let Brittany's spiral towards sickness slip right by her.

(_You were a little busy…)_

Their bathroom comes with a scale older than the two of them, probably left behind by some traveler. Brittany steps on it as soon as she gets through the door – something she does often. As if she could've gained ten pounds from drinking that glass of water.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing how much I weigh."

Obviously. What _else _would she be doing?

"You've already weighed yourself five times today."

"I know."

"Well if anything's changed, it's probably just water weight. It's normal for your weight to fluctuate-"

"I _know_, Santana! I just need _to do this_," her mind explodes, anger skyrocketing. She _hates it _when people try to talk to her about her body. As if she _doesn't know. _As if she's stupid enough to _not even know _what she's talking about. She's known more about weight and calories and exercise than the majority of her peers for a long time, and she _hates it _when someone tries to tell her things about the one thing she's _actually good at._

"Okay. Sorry..."

Santana walks away from the bathroom doorway, sitting down by the open window, resting her head in her hands. How could she have not noticed this until now? How could she have _not noticed_ how sick her best friend is? They're never going to make it anywhere… she's sure she'd be able to count every single one of Brittany's ribs and vertebrae, not that she'll let her see. Driving her to the nearest hospital is looking like a better idea by the minute, but she promised her…

If she takes her there, they'll take Brittany away from her forever. How is she supposed to survive without her? At this point, she can't go home. Her father would murder her… no, their only solution is to keep going. They have to.

Brittany emerges from the bathroom, promptly crawling onto the bed and diving under the covers, small hands tightly holding the blanket around her shaking frame.

"You okay, B?"

"I'm freezing, San. Shut the window."

"It's like seventy degrees outside."

"Well I'm cold!" she snaps. Santana cringes, sliding the window shut.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

She scowls and wraps the blanket around her tighter. Santana frowns.

"What are we supposed to do now?"

"I don't know. I'm tired."

"Are you _sure _you're okay?"

"Yes, Santana! I'm _fine_!"

Santana sight, and gets up to crawl into bed with Brittany. A room with one bed was cheaper, and at first she'd thought that's what they would want. Now with Brittany's moods, it's looking like a bad decision.

Except Brittany then leans over and kisses her on the lips.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to help you forget."

Forget what? Everything? That's not why she's with Brittany… that makes it sound so shallow. She's not _using _her…

"I don't do this with you so I can forget."

"I think you do."

So now she's going to go from angry to insightful? How does that work?

"I do it because… I love you."

She smiles, "Well I love you too. I want you to feel better."

They end the night like that, falling asleep in each other's arms. Much better than being alone, or in Santana's case, with other company. Much better.

If only life could always be like this.

* * *

"_I pray for her soul to stand straight up, for the end of her nightmares. I pray even though I'm past praying."_

* * *

Review!


	27. Tina V

_Murder_

_Tina_

* * *

"_I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break. Even now, when people lean down to touch me, or hug me, or put a hand on my shoulder, I hold my breath. I turn my face. I want to cry."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

School's been out for a few days, and Tina's already settled into spending her summer alone. That would be ideal, of course. No one to bother her, no one to _talk _to her – it sounds like a dream. It's how she usually spends her summers, minus Asian Camp in August, but even then she doesn't talk to many people.

Except if Kurt and Mercedes have anything to say about it, she'll be spending her summer very much _involved. _Starting with the two of them.

It's around eight o'clock and the sun is just starting to disappear beyond the horizon. Tina's taken this time to reorganize her eye shadow, according to brand and color. Summer giver her a lot of free time, and she likes to be organized. Her lack of a social life gives her plenty of time for other endeavors, like arranging her make-up by color or her books in alphabetical order. It passes the time. It keeps her busy. She's never really wanted anything else.

Until she joined glee club, that is. For some reason, being around people who "cared" about her so much made her sort of see what she was missing. Dating Artie made her see what she was missing. That didn't make her any braver. It didn't make her talk to people. It just made the hole inside her hurt worse than it ever had, because she knew what was supposed to fill it.

Just when she's reached the purple end of the rainbow, separating the violets from the indigos, her cell phone starts buzzing. She reaches over and picks it up off her bedside table, continuing to sort eye shadows.

"Hello?"

"Tina! Where _are _you?" Kurt's voice screams at her through the phone.

"Um… I'm in my room?"

"Get your butt over to my house right now! We're having a sleepover, remember?"

Right… the sleepover. She'd been trying to think of a way to get out of it, but Kurt and Mercedes wouldn't accept any of her excuses. She was going if they had to drag her there. Which, thinking about it now, might actually be a possibility.

"I don't have a ride… my parents went to see some French movie."

"Well, we'll come get you. Be there in ten minutes!"

"But-"

"No exceptions."

The line goes dead. Tina sighs, moving the last eye shadow into place. They're going to show up. She might as well pack a bag… in case they manage to carry her out of the house, that is.

She calls her mother while she's gathering clothes and a toothbrush and emergency books, and asks very politely if she can go stay at her friend Kurt's house. Of course, her parents are delighted. They always wanted her to _make friends, _and the thought of a sleepover sends them over the moon. They don't even care that it's at a boy's house – she's not sure if she ever made it clear that Kurt's gay or not. They'd probably be ecstatic either way.

She sits with her overnight bag on the edge of her bed, waiting, nervously bouncing her knees up and down.

What's she supposed to do? She can't eat there, because that's embarrassing. So is going to the bathroom and sitting down and saying anything…

The doorbell rings downstairs. When she doesn't answer, they just open the door, shouting her name. She didn't lock the door? That was a mistake…

Eventually, they find their way to her room, darting in like they're part of some spy movie.

"Aha! Found her!" Mercedes shouts, greeting her with a hug. Tina shrinks at the physical contact, "Told you she was here, Kurt!"

"I know, I know, but jimmying the lock was a little misleading…"

"Wait, you broke into my house?" she asks, a bit alarmed.

"Technically, we didn't break anything. We entered. Entering isn't illegal."

She'd like to argue that they possibly broke the lock on her front door, but it doesn't seem to be worth the fight. Mercedes picks up her bag and Kurt loops her arm through his, "Well, ready to go?"

"I don't-"

"I call shotgun!" Mercedes shouts, racing them down the stairs.

The car ride over is uneventful, aside from Kurt and Mercedes singing loudly to every song that comes on the radio. Tina sits in the back seat, staring straight ahead through the neon glow of the dashboard.

Kurt's house isn't must different from any other house in Lima, maybe a little bigger, and his entire basement is his bedroom. Well, Finn's too, but they're just starting to build an addition on to accommodate the growing family. Kurt's dad and Finn's mom are getting pretty serious. Kurt says he's getting a new room upstairs when the whole thing's done with.

"Finn and I aren't very good at sharing. He just doesn't flow with my sense of style, you know?"

Except everybody knows what Finn said to Kurt, but she figures she'll just let that go…

"So, let's get down to business!" Mercedes says happily. Kurt turns on his ipod speakers, an upbeat pop song filling the room. Tina stands there awkwardly as Mercedes looks through magazines while Kurt starts digging through drawers, revealing dangerous looking facial creams…

"So Tina, how's your summer starting?"

"Um… well. Fine, I guess."

"How's your driving going?"

Right. Driving. Everyone just _has _to ask about it. Since the initial drive, nothing's gotten better. She still has a panic attack every time, if that's what it is. A panic attack.

"It's okay…"

The fear that had been churning in her gut grows larger, as she realizes she has no idea what to do. She doesn't fit in with Kurt and Mercedes. She doesn't fit in with anyone. Can she really sleep here? Have fun? That doesn't seem possible…

They're going to keep talking and she won't know what to say, so she'll sound like a complete idiot, and then they'll hate her and then she'll feel even worse…

Suddenly it's very hot, and her heart feels like it's going to jump right out of her chest and she can't breathe.

"Um, Kurt? Where's your bathroom?"

"Right up the stairs on your left."

She moves quickly, taking the stairs two at a time. Once at the top, Tina locks the bathroom door and leans against the sink, trying to catch her breath. Everything's crashing all around her, inside her, and she can't do anything about it. Her vision blurs with tears as she desperately tries to get some air into her lungs.

They're going to think she's crazy. They won't like her anymore because she walked out on them like that, because she's awkward. She doesn't fit in with them. She's a screw up. A weirdo. Really, why does anyone bother talking to her at all?

There's a soft knock on the door, "Tina? Are you okay?"

Why does anyone even care?

"I'm… fine."

She takes a few deep breaths, in and out, and wipes her tears away. Her heart rate will decrease eventually. She can't stay in this bathroom with them thinking she's a total freak.

When she opens the door, Mercedes is waiting for her, "Your eyes are kind of red."

"Yeah. Well."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She sniffs, turning to go back down the stairs.

"No."

* * *

_I'm sorry. This kinda sucks. I'm just tired guys. Next chapter will be up soon!_


	28. Rachel VI

_Dissolve_

_Rachel_

* * *

"_This is the part where everyone says 'I love you' and pretends they mean it." _

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

Rachel spends three days in the hospital. Apparently her vitals bounce back fairly quickly. The IV is gone from her arm. One of her father's carries her pamphlets and medication (vitamin supplements) while the other has his hand on her shoulder as they make the long walk to the car. Buckled into the back seat, she stares out the window, leaving Lima Memorial behind them. She drinks water in a paper cup with a bendy straw. She thinks about all the ways she can lose the weight she's gained in the past three days.

Mostly, she thinks about just how lucky she is to survive the whole ordeal undetected. You'd think of all places, the hospital would check to see what was really wrong with her. But no. Not a word. Not even her fathers have asked what happened to her – they just took the facts from the doctor, no diagnosis, no cure, no reason. She isn't sure why, but she'll take it.

Apparently, she isn't good enough for any sort of diagnosis. She just has to try harder…

It doesn't really make sense. She wants people to find out. She wants to be sick enough to be cared about. Yet, she wants to bury her secret forever.

Well. It's probably the drugs talking.

Going home is happy and awkward, but it's mostly just depressing. The real benefit is sleeping in her own bed with no one to wake her constantly for vital checks or meals or visitors. No one watches her eat, either. No one raids her bathroom. Her fathers keep their distance because they're afraid they'll make whatever's going on worse. That's fine. Let them watch the show.

Let them watch her fall apart.

That's what they all want, isn't it? Amusement? To see perfection smash into pieces? If that's what they want, might as well give it to them. If anything about her can be said, it's that Rachel Berry knows how to entertain.

Maybe she's just tired of appearances. Maybe going to the hospital and nothing changing made her realize that it doesn't matter what you do or how many times you open your mouth – no one cares enough to actually save you. And yes, maybe she likes this way of coping, but even she knows it hurts, and maybe she wouldn't be opposed to someone pulling her head out of the toilet once in a while and showing her the way, but maybe that's all wrong. Maybe she should just give up instead.

She slept for a long time in the hospital, because they were willing to give her drugs to sleep that kept the thoughts at bay. Now, there's nothing.

Now, there's emptiness.

Everyone thinks just because she passed out, she'll get better. That's not true. If anything, it's made her even more determined to get worse. She hasn't done what she has to do yet. She isn't thin. She isn't successful. No one knows her name. What's the point in getting better if you're not worth the cure?

The first night home, she finds herself leaning over the toilet again, her dinner staring back at her. It's familiar. It's what she knows. Why would she change now?

There's one problem with all this, and that's Finn. Her boyfriend. Who knew being in a relationship would make this so complicated?

He takes her to Breadstix as a celebration of being healthy (or at least a celebration of not being dead). She doesn't eat the breadsticks and instead eats her salad, pausing to purge in the ladies room on the way out. She's tired again, just like before, and her eyes are bloodshot when she's done and totally noticeable, but Finn doesn't say a word until they pull into the driveway and he puts the truck in park.

"I'm worried about you."

The alarms go off in her head. No. No. Of course he had to ruin it.

"Worried?"

"You look sick."

You look ugly, that's what he means. Disgusting.

"But I'm better now, remember?"

He looks at her, really looks, eyes filled with such a deep sadness her broad smile falls from her face.

"I don't… want you to die, Rachel. I love you."

_He loves her. _But nobody loves her…

"I'm not dying! I'm fine. I'm out of the hospital and everything."

"Listen to me. I know you're sick, okay? I know you… make yourself throw up. That's why you had a seizure. That's why you won't sing anymore and you're always tired and going to the bathroom! It's gonna kill you, and I can't…"

He can't what? Deal with it? Watch it happen? _No one said he had to stick around_…

"I told you, Quinn's a liar-"

"But it's _obvious_! Everyone knows, but no one knows what to say! So I'll just say it! You can't die, okay? Eating disorders kill people and you can't keep doing this!"

_Obvious. _She's obvious. How pathetic.

"I know you want to help me, but I… just…"

Now that someone's actually said the words, she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know what to say to Finn, who is sitting across from her crying, without sounding like a complete fool. None of the words she has are right.

"What?"

"I can't stop for you, or for anyone. This is… who I am."

"_Bulimic _is not who you are. You're a person. A beautiful, talented, living _person_. Why can't you see that?"

She unbuckles her seatbelt. He doesn't understand. She lost everything she used to be a long time ago. Maybe he never even knew the real Rachel. Maybe she never knew her, either.

"I'm sorry. I just can't."

Sorry for being sick. Sorry for bursting into his life and fucking everything up. Sorry for being a burden. Sorry for feeling too much. Sorry for letting him down.

She walks herself to the front door and crawls into the safety of her bed. Sleeping and waking continuously throughout the night (but mostly waking), she pauses to binge and purge beneath the darkness. When her fathers get up to go to work, she buries herself under blankets and digs her fingernails into her arms to stifle the crying. The front door slams shut. She emerges, waits a few minutes in case they decide to come back. Weighs herself, goes downstairs, opens the fridge, and begins again.

When you don't sleep, there's no day or night or today or yesterday. It's just one continuous block of time, broken up by the food she eats and how dizzy she gets after throwing up again. This is how the day goes. She slowly empties the cupboards and the fridge, and by three o'clock she's bloated and sore, collapsed on her bathroom floor.

They're going to wonder where the food went. She doesn't have any money for groceries. Doesn't have any money for anything, really. Spends all her money on food. If she doesn't fill the kitchen back up, they're going to know.

Rachel cleans up the best she can, which isn't exactly very well, since standing up and walking is becoming a problem. Lying in bed, she sees she has two missed calls and five new text messages from Finn. Finn. Finn as money. Finn has a vehicle. Finn will listen.

He picks up on the first ring, "I've been trying to reach you all day, Rach! Where have you been?"

"… nowhere," her eyes cut to the half open bathroom door, "Can you do a favor for me?"

"Um, I guess so? You don't want to talk about last night?"

"No. I need you to go grocery shopping for me."

"Sure? What do you need?"

"Everything. Whatever you'd fill a kitchen with."

"Am I allowed to ask why?"

"No. Probably not."

She doesn't move from her spot in bed. He shows up about half an hour later, letting himself in when she doesn't answer the door and appearing at the foot of her bed.

"I saw the mess downstairs. Did you eat it all?"

Rachel doesn't say anything. He peeks inside the bathroom.

"You got barf on the floor."

"Go figure," her voice cracks. He frowns. Such a stupid, simple statement. She wasn't exactly aiming.

"Your dads are gonna figure it out when they get home."

"Not if I clean it up."

"Can you even stand up?"

"I'm working on it, thanks."

Finn shakes his head, pacing.

"I really can't believe you."

"Excuse me?" she picks her head up.

"You really don't care about anyone, do you? You're just happy to keep doing this until you die!"

Not exactly, but close enough.

"You don't understand."

"There's nothing to _understand_, Rachel! I love you! I don't want to leave you, but you're going to die! I can't watch it happen, and you're not going to stop!"

"Just leave, then," she mumbles, "Just leave if I'm so awful."

"But you're not! You're not…"

She closes her eyes, wave after wave of exhaustion washing over her, listening to him whisper _you're not, you're not._

When she opens her eyes, he's gone. She forces herself to get up and clean the bathroom. Somehow she makes it down the stairs into the kitchen, but Finn's already put the food away and taken out the trash.

She gets a tall glass of water and crawls back into bed, pretending to be asleep when her fathers get home. Once it's dark and everyone's in bed, she tiptoes downstairs and opens the fridge.

It all stares back at her in a wash of yellow light. She's empty. She needs it. She's terrible. She's ugly. She needs to fill herself. She needs, she needs she needs…

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. _Finn: I love you_

She grabs the closest thing in reach and starts eating. By morning, not enough food is gone to make her fathers suspicious, but enough to fill her up and empty her out. Her bathroom reeks of vomit and she falls into bed, too tired to even make herself appear normal. Her life's utterly broken – might as well stop hiding. The bomb's bound to drop soon enough.

As the sun rises, she finally falls asleep, replying to Finn's message in the wee hours of the morning.

_Rachel: I'm sorry_


	29. Santana and Brittany III

_Overthrow_

_Santana and Brittany_

* * *

"_I'm afraid she might just tear through her life without ever enjoying anything, except this, except pain. Still, her misery is terrible and beautiful, like stained white cotton dresses."_

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

Brittany sleeps in the back seat while Santana drives. She doesn't wake up when they stop for gas and snacks. Santana pays for everything in cash, not bothering to ask Brittany what she wants to eat. No matter how hard she tries, she won't eat anything. Brittany's stubborn, too stubborn for her own good really, and Santana's wondering whether or not she should just drive to the nearest hospital.

She can't do that, though, because then she'd be all alone. She can't go home. Her father has probably disowned her. He'd shoot her the minute she stepped through the door. It's not a safe place, and her only regret is leaving Angelita and Mama behind.

She just left them there. They probably disowned her, too. Brittany is the only person she has now. So she can't let her fall.

Is anyone even looking for them? Probably not. Well, maybe Brittany's parents are. Santana's parents probably couldn't care less. No one can be looking very hard. It's not like they've gotten very far, since Brittany isn't exactly helping with much of anything.

It seems stupid to continue, maybe even idiotic, but what other choice do they have? All they have is each other, and all their hope is in their will to keep moving. She has to keep believing that they'll make it somewhere and everything will be okay, or else they have nothing left. Or else, they might as well just lie down to die.

She realizes that's a poor choice of wording as she glances in the rearview mirror, seeing Brittany sleeping in the back seat. It doesn't even look like sleep. It looks like death. She looks like a corpse.

Maybe they should stop for the day, even though it's only mid-afternoon.

Another motel appears. She checks in outside, gets a room key, parks the car, and wakes Brittany up. Once in the room, Brittany collapses onto the bed and doesn't say a word. Santana leaves to pick up a late lunch.

There's a small, run down diner a few feet down the road. She sits alone in a booth, drinking a soda and picking at a salad with extra ranch dressing, attempting to plot their next move. Her mind keeps wandering, though, like a bad reality TV show you just can't manage to turn off.

It's been five days since she had an abortion… five days since she was pregnant with her father's baby… about twelve or thirteen days since he last…

She's been so wrapped up with Brittany; she hasn't had the chance to think about it much. What if, with her gone, he attacks Angelita? What if their life only gets worse and she's not there to protect them?

If he hurts her, she'll never forgive herself.

But Santana doesn't like thinking about that. She likes having someone to take care of, whether it's her family or Brittany. It stops her from thinking about her own sorry life… from thinking about all the things she could've been…

Ever since she was little, she dreamed about being famous. Imagining a glamorous life in Hollywood kept the bad dreams away. It gave her something to look forward to, to forget the fact that she'd probably be stuck in that house forever, in that bed with the princess bed sheets, stuck underneath this ruling, violent hand. It was the only way she could survive.

She never gave up because she had a dream, because she had Brittany, because she dug her own escape tunnels through the underground. She learned to live behind high brick walls, blocking out all the bad memories and pain.

She likes having sex with boys, sometimes even nameless boys, because they never hurt as much. As "experienced" as they may think they are, they're really innocent. Even a whore like Puck is innocent compared to everything she's seen.

She doesn't want to taint their innocence. She just maybe wants to steal some of it back.

She starts thinking about Puck then, for some stupid reason, and all the shit he's been going through. He gave up his daughter for adoption, so he hasn't been in much of a fucking mood, and Quinn won't give him the time of day. He called a few times after they left. Santana never picked up. It's better that way. It's better if he never knows. He should easily be able to give her up. They've only been messing around for, like, two years. Sure, that's a pretty consistent fuck buddy, but fuck buddies are totally replicable. He's got more than enough cougars to keep him happy. Really, he shouldn't even care about her.

No one should really care about her. She's a monster.

Maybe that means she's screwed. Maybe she'll just never deal with anything and be one of those pathetic girls who cries because her daddy hurt her and it's all his fault and she's a miserable piece of shit.

Well, whatever. It is what it is. That's not going to be her life. She's strong.

(_Just how strong are you when the lights go out… because dreams never come true)_

She has to be strong for Brittany. Maybe that's not healthy, to push it all away like that, but that's who she is. That's how it's handled. Or not handled. It can't be handled.

There's a reason no one talks about certain things. They're better left unsaid.

She stares at her salad and the dirty diner table, wondering just how many other things in her life will be left unsaid.

…

Brittany wakes up and Santana's gone.

Under normal circumstances, she'd be worried. She'd call her. But right now, Brittany doesn't care. She's never been this tired in her life, and even though she's spent most of this adventure sleeping, she just wants to go back to bed.

Instead, she manages to stand and steady herself, and drink a few gulps of water from the bathroom sink. It tastes like copper. There's nothing to wash out her mouth with that doesn't have any calories, so she lays back down, placing her hands on her protruding hipbones.

She likes to feel them. It lets her know that they're really there. Finally. After all those years.

Still, it's not enough. Nothing ever really feels like enough.

It'll change when they get to California. People will want her for jobs. They'll want her to dance. She's the best dancer on the Cheerios, and the Cheerios are national champions. That's got to mean something. It's got to mean she's the best, or at least one of the best, and that's better than a loser.

She'll live with Santana, just the two of them, and they'll be famous and live happily every after. Santana won't ever have to go back to her dad. Brittany will never have to go back to eating so much like everyone else.

They all want her to. She knows they do – it's obvious. Even Santana wants her to eat. But no one understands. She just doesn't eat like a normal person. She doesn't deserve to eat like a normal person. She has to lose weight. She has to be thin enough for everyone. She has to be enough…

That "enough" feels heavy, like it's crushing her, and she doesn't know what to do with it. Not eating helps.

She wonders where Rachel is. She hopes she's okay. They used to talk about everything. Rachel used to talk about this sadness she felt all the time. This sadness that sort of wrapped around her brain and rooted itself inside her and sucked all the energy away. The sadness made her hurt a lot. It made her stop caring whether she lived or died.

Brittany feels that way too, but she doesn't know how to word it. Not like that. Everything just feels really heavy all the time. The entire world is heavy. Everything's too much to hold up, so she doesn't really care what she looks like anymore, or the way people look at her, or how sad she makes Santana when she won't eat.

When she eats food, she just gets more sad. She gets mad at herself, because she's not supposed to eat. The voices in her head get angry and then she has to exercise for a long time to make it go away.

Brittany's just sick of being tired and of being sad all the time. She curls up in the corner, feeling the sadness tighten in her chest.

…

Santana returns to the room around four in the afternoon. Brittany's awake, sitting on the floor. She doesn't give it much thought and throws herself onto the bed, staring out the window.

"I got some food. I would've brought you some, but I figured it'd be a waste."

She doesn't answer. It's not much of a surprise. Brittany will probably give her the silent treatment when it comes to food for the rest of her life.

"We didn't get far today, so we'll have to drive a lot tomorrow. I was thinking we could even make it to Illinois. Or did you wanna go south?"

Brittany whimpers. Santana sits up and turns to face her, "Brittany?"

"Santana…" she cries weakly. The room is spinning, spinning, spinning. It's worse than normal this time… and her chest hurts. It's like there's a hand in there, squeezing on her heart… the sadness is crushing her heart, "My chest hurts."

"Hey, you're okay," she says, leaning down in front of her. Brittany's hand is pressed into the center of her chest, eyes fluttering open and closed rapidly. She's taking big glups of air through her mouth, almost like a choking fish. When Santana reaches to touch her, her skin is ice cold.

"It hurts."

"Everything's going to be fine, okay? Just breathe," she digs her cell phone out of her pocket. Brittany can't concentrate very well at the moment, but it's very obvious that everything is _not _fine. Something is very wrong with her. She's wrong. She's obviously doing it (_loosing, gaining, whatever it's never mattered_) wrong. _She's always wrong_.

"Brittany, please stay awake. Please," she says with her cell phone pressed to her ear, "Hi. I think my friend just had a heart attack… or is having one, I'm not sure." (_She only knows what's happening because she watched her uncle die right in front of her when she was eleven of a heart attack_. _What if _she _dies?_) No.

But why? She's _tired_…

"Brittany! Brittany, wake up!" she shakes her arm gently, and feels her chest to make sure her heart's still beating. It is, but it sounds… off. Like a bad drum player off count, "She just passed out."

"Okay honey, I need your address and then I'll send an ambulance right away."

"Um," she scrambles for the motel information on the desk, "The Anderson Motel on route 67. Room 14."

"Thank you dear. Would you like me to stay on the line with you until the paramedics get there?"

She looks down at Brittany's almost lifeless body and takes her boney hand, "Yes, please."

* * *

_"Our bodies have borne witness to our madness, and they will never let us forget."_

_- Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns_


	30. Quinn VI

_Elimination_

_Quinn_

* * *

"_Some of us decide to take a shortcut, decide the world is too much or too little, death is so easy, so smiling, so simple; and death is dramatic, a final fuck-you to the world." _

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

Quinn hasn't gotten out of bed in two days.

There doesn't seem to be much of a point anymore, so she doesn't see why she should bother. It's not like anyone cares.

Her mother wakes her up every morning. She hides underneath blankets, shoving her head underneath her pillow and refuses to speak. Judy tries to bring her food, but she doesn't eat it. Sometimes she drinks the glasses of water, or gets up to drink from the tap when her mother is at work, but that's it. She just doesn't care enough anymore to do anything, including take care of herself.

Mostly, she sleeps using her handy dandy sleeping pills. The world shifts between day and night without her noticing. Her life is a series of small windows of consciousness, separated by gaping holes of darkness. When she's asleep, she doesn't have to think about anything. There's no baby, no Puck, and no family. No one to keep her awake. No one to send her into spiraling guilt…

Eventually, she has to wake up. Eventually, she has to move.

Well no, she doesn't have to. She really doesn't have to do anything. She can just lay in bed forever. She's not thinking about living or dying, or what never getting up again would imply. It's not about that. She's just lost her will to do anything at all. It's utter hopelessness; a tunnel so black there's no visible light for miles.

It doesn't have to be about living or dying. It doesn't even have to be about a choice.

It's about giving up.

Quinn wakes up around ten pm. The house is quiet. Her mother is in bed. She takes a sip of lukewarm water on her bedside table, ignoring the plate of food, and reaches for the bottle of sleeping pills hidden underneath her pillow. It's far too light, and soon she realizes that it's empty. Her gateway to peace is gone.

She sits and stares at the orange bottle for a minute, not sure what to do. There's no way she can sleep now. There's no way she can do anything. Out of frustration, she tosses the small plastic bottle at the wall. It hits her shelf, knocking down a framed picture of her and some girls on the Cheerios. The picture frame and the bottle clatter to the floor.

Stupid pictures. Stupid life. Why not just tear it all down?

And so she does. She gets up and starts to toss everything into a pile on the floor. Pictures, posters, awards, jewelry, make up – anything that's able to be thrown. Anything resembling her old life. Anything resembling her life in general.

It creates a mountain on her carpet. The walls are stark white, save the pinholes and scuff marks. There it is: her life, her entire life pre-fall from grace, on her bedroom floor. It's pathetic. It's vapid. What was she? A cheerleader, dating the quarterback because she was supposed to, praying every day and smiling at her daddy and doing everything she was told.

What did it even mean? Her life didn't even have a point. She was just… going along with everyone else.

And then she defected, made infinite mistakes, forged her own path and lost everything. Now, she's… well, she doesn't know. Nothing? Does it matter in the scheme of things? Does she even really exist if she's not doing anything with her existence?

Staring at her life in pieces on the floor, she feels an impulse, and she acts on it. It's not a conscious decision. It's not a choice. It's an impulse.

Quinn opens the drawer in her bedside table and takes out the knife she stored there. It dully reflects the light, and she holds it at her side as she calmly walks down the hallway to the bathroom and closes the door.

She doesn't look at herself in the mirror, afraid of what she'll see. Instead, she turns on the shower, another impulse, and she has an urge to get into the shower and just sit, like sitting down in the rain. She pulls off all of her clothes and sits down underneath the stream, water droplets mixing with the ink on her arms.

It's soothing, but she doesn't want to be soothed. She can't feel it. _She wants to feel it._

_Feel. Something._

Quinn picks up the knife from its perch on the edge of the tub, clenching the wooden handle in her fist. On her left forearm, the word _slut _is melting into _bitch, _forming a messy smudge of nothing.

The world goes very quiet. She breathes in and out, water droplets staining her tongue, her face, beating down upon her sorry body. She sees the words on her skin smudge. She sees everything she's missing. She sees the strings dancing, ready to be cut.

The cool metal slides between the words. Staring intently, she presses down and watches as a sliver of blood pools underneath the knife, slowly trickling down her skin and dropping into the water. It's not enough, so she pushes harder.

It starts to hurt; a stinging, burning hurt, but she doesn't really care anymore. She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't have a clue except that she can finally almost feel a warmth. She's awake. Breathing. _Finally._

She picks up the blade and picks a higher spot, cleanly slicing open her skin and pressing down until her hand is numb and she's starting to get dizzy. The bathtub floor is a pool of ruby red. The knife drops and clatters, splashing into the lake. Her hair is sticking to her forehead. There's blood on her stomach. On her hands. Her arm is lost in a sea of crimson.

Finally. She feels something.

The world is muted, sickly sweet. She could lay likes this forever in the quiet, numb, warmth. Under the rhythmic beats of raindrops, pelting a steady symphony. Everything's burning. She's tired. It's like a mix of drowning and going up in flames.

Faintly, like looking up at the surface above, she hears the door open.

"Quinny?"

Her mother pulls back the shower curtain, mouth shaped in a perfect "O"

"Quinn! Oh my Lord!"

She quickly turns off the water and grabs a towel, wrapping it around her arm and pressing firmly. Quinn doesn't follow her and doesn't bother responding. Her mouth is full of clay. It would take too much to respond. It would take too much to lift her hand.

Her arm feels like it's bolted too the floor. It doesn't hurt, not like it should. She feels covered in a mist, more than just the steam from the shower.

"Everything's going to be fine…" her mother is a flurry of movement, dialing 911, "Please talk to me, Quinn. Please."

No. _You're ruining everything. Leave me alone._

What is she ruining? Peace?

She can feel this. Maybe she's feeling too much. Maybe she's been numb for so long she's experiencing an emotion overdrive.

She just wants to sleep. No one will let her. There was finally a place where the baby wasn't, for just a second. There was no baby or Puck or other people. It was just her and blood and quiet.

Now it's gone, just like everything else in her life. She watches the bloody handprints on the tile drain away as they strap her to the gurney.

* * *

_A warning lovely readers: I'm headed back to school tomorrow morning, so I don't know how frequent the updates will be. Probably not as frequent as they have been, but I'm not giving up! Thank you for reading!_


	31. Santana and Brittany IV

_Extinction_

_Santana and Brittany_

* * *

"_I have so many things to say to her I can't even get the order straight." _

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

The entire world has stopped and flung them out of orbit, gasping for oxygen at every turn.

Santana sits in the emergency waiting room alone. She called Brittany's parents hours ago. After she took care of that the best she could, something made her dial Puck's number. It's not like she has too many people she can call (except for Brittany, but _obviously_…), and she doesn't feel like being alone. Puck's the closest thing she's ever had to being a friend, really. He's the only person she can think of who might handle the situation sort of okay. She _has _been ditching him lately. He could probably use the company.

Once the ambulance came and rescued them from the cheap motel, the doctors decided to life flight her to Cincinnati for better treatment. Santana made the drive by herself in the dark. It felt like a lifetime. She's exhausted, and the watery hospital coffee isn't helping.

The automatic doors slide open. Considering it's around two am, the ER is fairly crowded. Though she's no doctor, all of these people look like they could use immediate attention. A little girl is throwing up almost uncontrollably in the corner, sitting in her mother's lap, while another man is practically holding together a cut on his leg with his bare hands. This is why she never came to the hospital when she got hurt. They make you wait too freaking long. That, and they didn't exactly have the money for doctor bills. If she got sick or hurt, she was told so suck it up. Perhaps that helped a little. She has a killer poker face…

"Santana?"

Puck's standing there with two Starbucks coffees in hand, sleep decorating his face. She takes the coffee without saying anything, letting the warmth flood through her palms.

"How are you?"

She sneers, "Peachy keen, Puckerman. What do you think?"

"How is she?" he asks, cutting straight to the point and sitting down next to her.

"She had a heart attack. If it was just that, she might be okay, but… she's underweight. A lot underweight. Her vitamins and electrolytes or whatever are all screwed up, and something about her kidneys I didn't understand. But she's dehydrated and malnourished, and the doctor said her body is practically eating itself alive."

"Wow. That… _sucks_."

It's a surprisingly fitting statement for the situation. She might've ripped him a new one if he said _poor Brittany _or _I'm sorry_ or tried to console her in some stupid way. That's one of the things she likes about him… he doesn't try to sugarcoat anything or try to be _optimistic_.

"They transferred her here because they could treat her better for… for anorexia," Santana's fist clenches and unclenches, the warmth of from the coffee no longer helping, "I swear, she's hardly ate since we left, except when I shoved it down her throat."

"You didn't know."

Except she _did _know. She saw it. She just didn't want to believe it. She just wanted to keep going, hoping it would save both of them.

(_Your fault your fault your fault_)

"I should've. She's my _best friend_… I knew she was loosing weight; I just never thought it would get so bad."

"It's not your fault."

It _is_ her fault, but she can't think about that because then she'll start crying, and she refuses to cry in front of him.

"Then whose is it?"

"I don't know," he sighs, and sips his coffee, sighing hazelnut and pain, "It just is."

Some things just are. Girls don't eat. Girls have sex (_gender varying, willing or otherwise_). Girls live. Girls die.

It just is.

…

Brittany wakes up at five twenty-two am with too many wires poking and prodding her and a nurse draining her blood. She never understood why they took so much, considering she sort of needed it, but then again she never did pay attention in biology.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," the nurse smiles. She has ducks on her shirt. Brittany likes ducks, "Glad to have you with us."

"Am I in the hospital?"

"Yes, dear."

"You had a heart attack, honey. Let me take this blood sample over for testing, and the doctor will be right over to talk to you, okay?

She leaves, shoes squeaking against the tile floor. Her voice is too sweet and she uses pet names. They all do. Brittany doesn't like that. It sounds insulting, like she's stupid. People call her stupid enough in the normal world. She doesn't need it in the hospital world.

Her doctor is tall and clean and smells like soap. He looks at her charts and tells her her family will be arriving shortly. She had a heart attack, her friend Santana called the hospital, and they flew her here. They're back in Ohio.

"When you're feeling better, I'm going to have you evaluated for an eating disorder."

"Why?"

"Because you're very sick."

Sure, she's sick. But she's not thin. Not like those girls on TV who get sent to the hospital for eating disorders. She wishes she was as pretty as them…

"Am I going to die?"

"Not today," he smiles half-heartedly, "Not for a long time, if you take care of yourself."

She _was _taking care of herself. She was trying to be better. Obviously.

"Okay. Can I see Santana?"

"Your friend? I don't think so. We only let family in…"

"Please. She's my sister."

"She doesn't look like your sister. Actually, she told me she wasn't."

"But my family won't be here for a long time…" she frowns. It has to be hard to say no to a little girl sick in bed full of tubes.

"I suppose," he sighs, "But only for a few minutes."

She waits as he disappears from the room. The IV taped down to her hand itches. She feels cold, even though she's underneath a blanket… and then she sees it. Or rather, feels it. Her nose. There's a tube going up her nose. A feeding tube.

Food. Liquefied nutrients. _They're making her fat._

Shit, shit, shit. Food. There's calories inside her. They're pumping her full of stuffing. Calories. Fat.

Santana enters the doorway, smiling. Brittany smiles for her sake, trying to mask her panic.

"Hey," she whispers softly, sitting down in the chair next to her bed.

"Hey," Brittany automatically reaches for her hand. Santana holds it around the tape and needles.

"How're you feeling?"

"Tired, but I'm okay."

"That's good," she smiles a little, "You scared me."

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't."

As if she could control a heart attack. She didn't do anything wrong. She didn't do _anything _at all. She just… tried to fix everything. That's all she's ever tried to do.

"You look tired."

"I guess I am," she says, patting her hand, "I'm okay."

"You can go home, you know. The doctor said my parents are coming soon."

"… I don't really want to go home, Britt."

"Oh. But where will you go?"

She looks down at her lap, "Nowhere, I guess. I guess I have to go back."

"But your dad-"

"Drop it, Brittany."

"But he-"

"I'll be _fine. _You don't need to worry about that."

"But-"

"No," Santana stares at her with such intensity, Brittany closes her mouth. She only wants Santana to be safe, and she's not safe there… no one's safe there. But Santana won't talk about it. Santana won't ever talk about anything, even when it's not a secret anymore…

"I'm gonna go sit with Puck now," she stands, kissing her on the forehead, "Get better, okay? I'll visit when I can."

"Puck's here?"

"Yeah, he came to sit with me."

"I want to talk to him."

"Puck? Why?"

"I just want to talk to him."

Santana frowns, giving her a strange look, "Alright… I'll go get him."

…

"Hey Britt," Puck says, strolling over and sitting down next to her bed like everything's normal, "What's up?"

It only took a few minutes. She's scared the doctor will come back and kick him out before she's finished.

"I have to tell you something… really important," she breathes, speaking over the beeping heart monitor, trying to focus on something besides the fact that they're tube feeding her (_calories, fat, fat, fat…_). Santana is more important, "I know we don't talk that much, but I have to tell you."

"What is it?"

"It's about Santana."

His eyes widen in surprise, "Okay."

She promised she wouldn't tell, but this is important. She can't let anyone hurt Santana anymore. She can't let her drown. She's not helping herself, so Brittany has to help her. Just like Santana helped Brittany.

"Before we ran away, she got an abortion."

"_Shit_. Was it mine?"

"No," she pauses, breathes, and licks her lips. It feels like she's going to have a heart attack again, or maybe she's just nervous, "I wish it was."

"What're you talking about?"

"It was her dad's."

He swears. Loudly, "So you mean…"

"He rapes her, Puck… all the time. I'm really scared for her."

His face pales, knuckles tightening around the armrest of the chair.

"How do you know?"

"I figured it out, and then… she told me."

"Thanks, Brittany. I'm… gonna go find Santana."

"Okay."

She hopes she made the right decision. But if she has to change, then Santana should have to change, too.

…

"Santana, wait up!"

She turns to see Puck sprinting after her down the hospital corridor. She slows down, but only a little bit, because she doesn't take orders from anyone. Especially the boys she screws. Like they deserve her respect. Like anyone deserves her respect.

"What, Puckerman?" he grabs her shoulder, forcing her to turn around and look at him.

"I talked to Brittany."

"Yeah, so?"

"She told me you had an abortion. When were you going to tell me?"

The little snitch. Then again, she is sick, and she's probably just trying to help in her own way. Maybe she's angry. Santana told about her eating disorder, so she's telling about the abortion. Getting even. It's different, though. Brittany needed help. Santana doesn't.

(_You don't need anyone, right Princess?_)

She rolls her eyes, "Not much to tell. It happened, it's over. It's not really any of your business anyway."

"I think it is. Unless it isn't mine."

"Maybe it wasn't."

"Then whose was it?"

She stops, looks at him, "I don't know." As if she'd tell the truth.

(_It was Papa's, you know… little mutant spawn_)

"Yeah, because it's so hard to keep track of all the guys you've been shaking up with," he snorts. That should be a reasonable answer, considering her track record. Why isn't he accepting that?

"Leave me alone, _Noah_."

"Was that why you ran away?"

"I ran away to help _Brittany_, which, as you can obviously see, blew up in our faces."

"No other reason?"

"No, " _what the hell is his deal?_

"Not because you were afraid the baby was your dad's, and it finally gave you the balls to stop putting up with his shit?"

(_what_)

(_lie. Save it. lie_)

She glares at him, but there's a split second where she falters, and he knows he's hit jackpot (unfortunately), "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Brittany told me everything."

"Brittany's drugged up on pain medication. She's not a reliable source."

His face hardens, "She told me all about how your dad _rapes_ you-"

She slaps him across the face. _Hard_. He looks at her, feeling the handprint burning into his cheek, and suddenly, all Santana wants to do is cry. All she wants to do is go curl up in one of those hospital beds and cry, with medication to numb her tears.

"So it's true?" she sees the hatred burning in his eyes, and she doesn't even need to say yes or no. Apparently, it's written all over her face, "How long, Santana?"

(_How long did you want someone to ask? How long were you afraid of someone asking?_)

"I…" she shouldn't be telling anyone this. She never should've said anything to Brittany.

"How long?" he says forcefully, and she finally sees what she's been denying. He cares about her. Someone cares about her enough to know she doesn't deserve this.

Someone cares enough to ask about it. Someone cares enough to do something. Someone… and hearing it out loud… the words, finally out loud, make it almost okay to talk about.

"… when I was…" she shudders, "Um… nine years?"

It makes her sick to even think about it. Puck swears and punches the wall, "Fucking douchebag…"

Now all she wants is to be able to fold over inside herself and disappear, because people know her secret and she doesn't know what will happen anymore. She doesn't know what to do. He's tearing down her wall. He's completely destroying it, breaking open her secret world for everyone to see. He's dragging it out of the dark and she doesn't know what to do in the light. She has no idea.

Mostly, she's just a scared little girl. A statistic. Another number. That pisses her off, and it makes her sad, because she's finally realizing she only wanted someone to hold her, and she looked for that comfort in nameless boys because it erased the touch of arms who hurt her so much. It feels better to be with them than to be with him. It makes it all go away, for a little while.

Even though she tells herself not to, she starts to cry.

"Oh. San…" now he's playing the fucking sympathy card. It makes her angry; she doesn't want anyone to _pity_ her. But the tears won't stop leaking from her eyes.

He pulls her into his chest, and she collapses.

And that's all she ever wanted. To have someone catch her when she falls.

…

Brittany lays in bed for an hour, shifting in and our of sleep, waiting for her parents to arrive. The nurses check her IV and vitals frequently. They make conversation. She asks them to take the feeding tube out. They tell her they can't – she's too thin to support her body. That's ridiculous. _You can never be too thin._

Her family shuffles into the room. Her mother is a whirlwind, rushing in and hugging her and kissing her face over and over. Her father is quieter, gently hugging her and kissing her on the forehead. Her sister, Julia, gives her a hug and then sits on the floor, playing with her ponies she brought along for the ride.

"You gave us quite a scare, baby."

They were prepped in the hallway on her diagnosis. They know. Her mother can't stop staring at the feeding tube.

"I'm sorry."

"We were so worried! We've had the police out looking for days. Why would you just take off like that?"

Brittany finds she doesn't really want to talk about it, so she just shrugs, "It seemed like a good idea."

"Well… lets not do that again, okay?"

She nods. Her mother takes her hand, long fingernails resting on the tape. They're pink. She likes pink.

"Sweetheart, I don't know why you didn't just tell me."

"… what?"

"I could've helped you lose weight, darling. You didn't need to take things to such a… _extreme_ level," she gestures to the tubes, to her body.

_I was doing this for you. I do everything for you… _And yet she still doesn't want it.

Fine then. At least Brittany's still skinnier than her. That will never change. Brittany will always be thinner than her. After all, she learned from the best.

"Did you ever think that this might be your fault, Maria?" her father spits.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe if you hadn't been pestering her with ridiculous diets and exercise and calories, she might not be in this mess."

Fighting. They always fight.

"You're saying _I_ did this? I know our daughter isn't a rocket scientist, Bill, but she's perfectly capable of making her own decisions!"

"All of your obsessions with your body obviously influenced her!"

"So I'm a toxic influence now? Maybe if you were _home_ to influence her-"

"Can both of you be quiet? Please?" she interjects. They stare at her wordlessly. She swallows, trying to clear her throat. The hospital mattress is hurting her exposed bones, "My head hurts a little."

"Sorry honey," her mother says and kisses her cheek, "We'll talk later." She is gone with a flick of her skirts.

"I'll visit you later, ducky, and we can talk about this," _This. _Like it's a problem. Like she's a problem. Then her father is gone as well, and they start yelling again in the hallway. Julia is left in the corner, stroking the hair of her pony.

"Get better soon Brittany. All of the animals miss you at the tea parties," she smiles a gap tooth grin and kisses her sister on the cheek. Brittany misses the tea parties. There wasn't any real food there. It was all pretend. If only everything could be like that.

"Bye, Jules."

She is left to silence, besides the beeping machines that she still doesn't know the purpose of. Her body hurts and she feels very, very sick. It must be the tubes up her nose.

She doesn't understand why they just can't leave her alone. She felt much better when she wasn't eating anything.

Well then. As soon as they let her go, she'll have to fix it. For now, she'll just have to play along. It's a game, like playing tea parties. Nothing's real. Everyone just pretends and at the end of the day, whatever you did is fixable. There we go. Problem solved.

From now on, her stay in this strange, sterile place is just like a tea party. When she's out, she'll never have to eat again.

* * *

"_I didn't know, yet, just what a liar I would become."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

_Bahhh this one was so hard to write! And the next one, but we'll get to that eventually... anyway, thanks for reading!_


	32. Santana IV

_Subjugation_

_Santana_

* * *

"_She offered herself to the big, bad wolf and didn't scream when he took the first bite."_

_- Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson_

* * *

Santana's never been a girl who cries. She doesn't cry. She's never _let herself _cry because it never made anything better. Crying wouldn't fix anything. Crying makes her weak.

Except now here she is, not only crying, but crying in front of someone else. If she had any handle on her emotions, she'd probably be mortified, but she doesn't. She's sad, she's angry, she's embarrassed, she's relieved. She's a number of feelings, swirling in a vortex.

Brittany's father offers to drive his daughter's car home for her, so Puck drives her home. She doesn't want him to, but he insists. In return, she makes him promise he won't try to murder her father. He agrees, but the vein pulsing in his forehead makes her think otherwise.

He waits for her to say goodbye to Brittany in the hallway. She wipes away her smudged eyeliner. Brittany doesn't need to see her when she's weak.

She hugs her, maybe for the last time in a while, "I'm gonna go back home now, Britt, but I'll see you soon."

"Okay. You'll be okay?"

"Yeah… um, Puck's taking me home, so…"

"Oh. He talked to you?"

"Yeah…" she shifts from foot to foot.

"I'm sorry I broke my promise… but I-"

"It's okay. I broke mine."

She frowns, "But you didn't-"

"It's fine. I'll visit, okay?"

She looks so fragile, laying there consumed by something Santana will never fully understand, but she just nods, "Okay."

The ride back to Lima is fairly quiet. She fiddles with the radio station for a bit, but eventually she gives up and falls asleep. She hasn't slept since the night before. Sleep is easier. In sleep, she doesn't think about what's coming.

It also means home arrives quicker than she expected. She wakes up as they're pulling off the highway, and sits nervously with her hands in her lap as she gives Puck directions to her house.

All of the cars are in the driveway when they pull in. They're home. They're waiting. Or maybe not waiting. They don't know. Maybe everyone's already moved on and she can just walk right back out…

Except she can't leave her sister, and she has nowhere else to go, and it's not like Papa knows she told a soul…

But it feels like he does. It feels like he's waiting for her return just so he can punish her for her words.

Santana opens the front door with Puck directly behind her. He insisted on coming inside. She wasn't about to stop him, really. Too much on her mind.

Papa and Mama are standing in the kitchen, as far apart as possible. They must've watched through the window. Angelita is nowhere to be seen. That could mean anything. She stands in front of them, unsure what to say except for a simple, "Hola."

Papa's hands are clenched into fists, "Would you like to explain where you've been?"

"I left," she shrugs, chin held high. She doesn't think she needs to explain herself to the likes of him, but at the same time, she's afraid, "My friend needed me."

"Did he have something to do with this?" he nods his head towards Puck.

Right. He'd be jealous of another man's affection, wouldn't he?

"Noah just gave me a ride home from the _hospital_."

He grunts, "Well, I hope you said goodbye, because you won't be leaving here for a good while."

_(No.)_

_(Just… no. Not anymore.)_

_(You're not staying here.)_

Something snaps inside her. She isn't sure what, but it clicks, and she just doesn't want to listen to him anymore.

She told Puck. Maybe she can tell someone else. Maybe… at least it can get better. Maybe. But she has to try. For Brittany, for Angel… maybe even for herself?

"I'm not staying here."

"Excuse me?"

"I said: I'm not staying here."

Behind her, she feels Puck's muscles tighten. She reaches back and rests a hand on his arm. He's warm.

"I never gave you permission to leave."

"I don't need your permission."

"Like hell you do!" he steps forward. It takes every ounce of her willpower to not flinch, "You're my daughter, and you'll obey me!"

"I don't need to listen to someone who…" it makes her sick to even think about the words, but the fact that she's thinking it makes his eyes widen a bit. Instead, she turns to her mother, "Why don't you say something?"

She pales, quivering, "What do you want me to say?"

"Mama, you know what's going on! Just stand up for me!"

She starts crying something in Spanish; Santana yells back, and then her father chimes in and punches Santana in the mouth (_Lo siento, pero no puedo! - ¿Por qué te quedes ahí parado? Cuando me viola todas las noches? - Cállate perra!_).

She recoils backward straight into Puck. He's slept through Spanish class for the past two years, so he doesn't know what anyone's saying, but Santana's dad hitting her is enough for him to start hitting right back.

She sits up, blood trickling down her lip as Puck pins Papa onto the floor. He hit her. He's never _hit _her before. Well, why would he want to break his favorite toy?

(_Disgusting. You've never actually said the words out loud, you know. A different language doesn't count.)_

She looks at her mother, getting up off the floor, "Call the police, Mama."

"But I don't… I can't…"

Santana's always known her mother was a coward, but she's never seen her this pathetic. She couldn't even defend her own child. She didn't do _anything_. She never has.

"You're sick of him hurting us, aren't you? I get it if you don't care about him hurting you, and I guess you've already damned me, but what about Angelita? Do it for her, or I will."

She picks up the phone. Santana walks as calmly as she can to the hallway at the edge of the kitchen where Angelita is waiting.

"Are you okay, Santana?"

"I'm fine, Angel," she pulls her sister to her, "Everything's going to be fine."

"What's happening to Papa?"

"He's going to jail where he belongs."

Then she holds her while they cry.

…

The police come and take him away. They'll want to see them all later for questioning. Arrested on charges consisting of physical abuse, sexual abuse, rape, child molestation, and assault. He's gone in a flash of blue blinding lights and she watches the car disappear down the road before she runs.

When she was a little girl, she hid underneath her bed. It felt safe. Mama locked herself in her room and wouldn't come out until he was gone. She didn't have that luxury, so she hid herself away.

She tries to hide, ripping everything out from underneath her bed, but she doesn't fit anymore. She's too big. No matter how hard she throws everything, old papers, notebooks, bleeding ink and churning pain, nothing changes. She can't hide anymore.

Puck finds her like that – sitting on her floor on top of torn paper, tears once again dripping from her chin.

She's sitting on top of the journals she's kept for nine years, sprawled open on the carpet where she threw them, although he doesn't know that. He wouldn't know. No one knows.

But very soon, everyone will know, and she doesn't know if she's ready for that.

(_He makes me feel dirty, and no matter how hard I try, I know I'll never be any good again_.)

"I thought you left," she mutters through ragged breaths. He sighs, gingerly picking up a torn notebook.

"I didn't think you should be hanging out here alone."

(_I want to crawl in a hole and seal myself off. I don't want anybody to ever touch me again. EVER_.)

The ink is smudged. Her handwriting slowly gets neater, and she morphs into the girl he met freshmen year. In front of him is an eight year old trapped in the wrong body, longing for the life that was stolen from her.

Puck puts his hand on her shoulder, probably because he doesn't know what else to do, "Do you want to… talk?"

She laughs, "No."

"Santana?"

Angelita is standing in her doorway. Puck stands up straight, and she motions her sister into the room, "What is it, sweetie?"

"What are we suppose to do now?"

"I don't know."

She sits down beside her. Santana smoothes back her hair, "I need to you to tell me something, Angel."

"Okay."

"And I won't hate you for telling me. You have to tell me the truth."

"Okay, San."

"While I was gone, did he touch you?"

Puck leaves. That was enough screwed up little girls for one day. Anymore, and he might start bawling himself. (As he pulls out of the driveway, he gets a text message from Finn about Quinn, and then he _really_ wants to cry)

Santana supposes it's for the best. This is a family matter, and she knows for a fact that Puck's never dealt well with watching girls cry.

They both wait until they hear the front door slam.

"No…" Angel shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes, "Well… I mean…"

Santana hugs her tight as they rock back and forth. She thought she was finally done crying for the day. Guess not.

Her sister whispers into her shoulder, "Yes."

She can't help feeling like it's her fault. If she never left, Angel would still be safe. Instead, she tells her everything will be okay, even though she might be lying, and they keep rocking back and forth, the motion steady with their tears.


	33. Quinn VII

_Disintegrating_

_Quinn_

* * *

"_I would go in blind search for something else with which to tear myself apart. I found a razor blade worked quite well."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

The flashing lights of the ambulance light up the darkened streets. The EMTs put pressure on Quinn's arm while her mother holds her head in the lap, hands softly shaking. She stares at the ceiling of the vehicle, listening to the conversations floating around her.

Maybe she's bleeding to death. Maybe that's what she wanted. Maybe the world will suddenly fly up and she'll disappear, finally.

But she doesn't disappear. Nurses stop the bleeding and sew up her arm with blue thread while her mother cries in the corner. Apparently, she's gone into shock, so they have to stabilize her. It takes a little while before she's cleared, resting in the stark white hospital room, bandages covering the two throbbing, deep, horizontal cuts in her arm.

Her vitals are fine. The doctor assures her mother that yes, she'll be okay, she probably just feels a little sick and in a little bit of pain. Her mother holds her hand. Her mother's hands are warm. She strokes her hair and says nothing.

Quinn stares off into space, the wounds pulsing beneath the gauze. They give her some sleeping medicine (like she doesn't have experience with that), but she just dreams about more blood. Blood covering her body, pouring from her womb. The baby wrapped in sheets of blood, coming back to her and saying: _Why are we bleeding, Mommy? Why did you leave us to die?_

She doesn't want any medication after that.

She's on suicide watch, which is interesting to say the least. A nurse checks in on her every two seconds to make sure she isn't dead and watches her go pee, which would be awkward if she had a shred of dignity left. Of course, she doesn't have any dignity. She's lost her capacity to care.

She never decided to kill herself. She didn't think about it. All she did was pick up the knife. All she did was bring it to her arm and press down. She wasn't thinking she'd die from it. She wasn't thinking about anything it all. It just seemed like… an escape.

And she failed. She can't even do that right. She can't do anything right.

The doctor from the psychiatric ward comes in and evaluates her. For what, she isn't quite sure. Maybe they need to decide if she belongs in a nuthouse, like Rachel, except no one put her away yet. Last time Quinn heard, she was still in the hospital. Probably this hospital. But she'd be with eating disorder patients… Then again, how many eating disorder patients can there be in Lima?

The questions he asks make her sick to her stomach.

_Have you been depressed? _Obviously. Since she destroyed her life and everyone around her._ Any past history with self injury? _No. Does writing on her arms count? Is that some sort of prequel?_ Do you abuse drugs or alcohol? _Are sleeping pills considered drugs? They can't be as dangerous as… heroin. Or cocaine._ Any traumatic experiences lately? _Not exactly, though she isn't exactly sure how to define "traumatic." Nothing… should really count as traumatic or earth shattering, considering it's her fault. She deserves every bit of this.

She's a sinner in a room full of saints. That's traumatic enough.

_How do you feel on a day to day basis? _Royally fucked over.

Eventually, the doctor deems her depressed (postpartum or otherwise) and suicidal. Like she couldn't have figured that out herself. Feeling fed up, she asks for more drugs. Better to sleep it off with nightmares than talk to crazy people.

In sleep, she doesn't have to think about anything. She doesn't have to remember all she's done. She can pretend the dreams mean something else. Yet in sleep, she can't feel the pain in her arm. She misses it. It lets her know she's still real.

Eventually, she has to wake up, and her mother's there and her father's not. Her father's never there.

Her mother cries, looking down at her, "You were always such a good girl, Quinny… such a good girl. Why would you do this?"

She stares down at her bandaged wrist, the way the cuts are pulsing beneath the gauze, "I've never been the person you thought I was. The person you wanted me to be."

Her voice is raspy and dry. It's the first time she's spoken to her in a few days.

"I only want you to be happy."

"No, mom, you want me to be your perfect angel," she says, voice cracking, but she doesn't cry, "And I can't do it."

…

It's 10:23 in the morning. She's been in the hospital for eight hours. Her mother's talking to the doctor, or getting coffee, or something. She didn't ask. It hasn't exactly been long enough to attract any visitors, but Noah Puckerman has never played by the rules.

"Well, well, well," he saunters into the room, taking a seat next to the bed, "Perfect Quinn Fabray on suicide watch. Never thought I'd see the day."

They haven't spoken in weeks. Not since the baby was born. Now he thinks he can just walk in here and talk to her like everything's fine?

"Shut up, Puck," she spits. He cringes a little, sitting down in the chair next to her bed.

"Hey, I'm just kidding. You have to admit, it was unexpected. You're such a goody two shoes-"

"Do you think this is funny?" she says angrily. She wants to jump up and strangle him, but the IV in her arm prevents that from happening. She's upset that she feels any emotion towards him anyway. How can he make her feel anything at all when she's been numb for ages?

"No… sorry," he sits back, hands on his knees, almost looking a little afraid, "I don't deal well with being serious."

"I know."

"So why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Hey, _I'm_ the idiot in the room. We don't need two."

"I need to know which part you're talking about."

"All of it," the look in his eyes is almost… concerned. It doesn't make sense to her, because Puck's never cared about anyone besides himself. Then again, nothing makes sense anymore.

How to explain this?

"I started writing on my arms a while ago…" she says quietly, looking anywhere but at his face, "I don't know why."

"I noticed."

"You did?" she didn't know anyone noticed anything anymore. Especially him.

"Yeah. I do notice stuff sometimes, Quinn. I mean, you're the mother of my kid. I was kind of paying attention, in case you went into labor. I didn't want you to drop her on the floor."

She rolls her eyes, "It doesn't exactly work like that."

"Well I know that _now_. I had to watch. Most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life."

"You think _you_ had it rough? You're not the one who had to push her out!"

"I know. And I love you even more for that."

She looks away. This isn't the boy she knows. Puck is a smooth talker, deceitful, a "knock you up and run" type of guy. Yet he's still here, and she gave birth over a month ago. He's still here, watching. Waiting.

Why is he here? He's supposed to hate her, just like everyone else…

"I used to write on myself so everything inside my head would be real. So I could see it and it would always remind me of what I was."

"But you're not stupid," he takes her hand and the touch sends vibrations up her arm, "or worthless or a slut. You're not any of that, so I don't know why you'd think you are."

"You didn't grow up like me, Puck. You didn't grow up with everyone expecting you to be some kind of… perfect miracle worker."

"No. Everyone expected me to fail," he sighs, "I should be the one committing suicide. You always had such a great family and they always supported you… you even went to church and believed in God. You just seemed so… grounded."

Grounded. Right. When was she ever secure?

"That's the problem! They pushed everything on me. I had to be… I had to do everything right, but no matter what I did, I'd never be good enough. At least… no one cares when you make mistakes. But when I do? It's world war three."

"Then why would you do it? I still don't understand why you'd throw your life away."

"I don't care anymore!" she shouts, voice tangled with a sob, "I. Don't. Care. Get it? I don't care about you or me or God or _anybody_!"

"You have to care about something."

"I don't."

"What about Beth?"

"She's not ours." She's not anything. She's gone.

"So? You want her to come looking for us one day and figure out her mom was some _Lima loser_ who killed herself?"

She stops and glares at him, "Why should I care? If I never had her, this wouldn't of happened."

"You can't blame her for ruining your life!"

"Fine, then I blame _you_! If I'd never had sex with you-!"

"You can't blame anyone but yourself!"

She goes quiet, smirking a little, "I've been blaming myself this entire time. How would you like to sit in somebody else's house every day and hate yourself for what you did?"

"I do. I feel just as bad about what I did to you. I'm just enough of an asshole to hide it. Not to mention I don't care what God and other people think as much as you do."

"I don't care either."

"You're a liar."

"You haven't noticed?" she scoffs, "And you thought you were so observant."

"I know you've been beating yourself up and stopped going to church, and you lock yourself in the bathroom all night, and you don't read your Bible anymore. But I don't know why you'd try to kill yourself, because inside you still care."

"I didn't cut because I didn't want to hurt the baby," she sighs, "But now she's gone, so I figured I had nothing left to loose."

"But you have so much! You have friends and family and your faith-"

"I told you, I don't believe in anything anymore."

"But I thought you…"

"God was never there for me when I needed Him. I lost _everything_, and… He didn't do anything about it. Why should I believe?"

"You still do."

"Why?"

"Because I know you. It's just in you, Quinn. You'll find it again."

He's here. He's holding her hand trying to say words about a god he probably doesn't even believe in, and maybe she doesn't either considering the circumstances. How does he know what to say? How does he think he knows all the right things to say? And why is she almost glad to see him?

"Why are you here?"

He cocks his head, "Why wouldn't I be here?"

"Because… we weren't talking. I thought… I don't know. I just didn't think anyone would come."

"People care about you, Quinn."

"But you… I mean, I'm not your girlfriend or anything."

He could say anything. She expects him to say he feels obligated because she gave birth to his daughter. He owes it to her or something, to make sure she doesn't die quite yet. It would be cold enough and distant for her.

Instead, he gets that half grin on his face, "No. But you're mine."

She feels the presence of his hand more strongly than her wounds, and for a minute she doesn't mind him here. She doesn't understand. She doesn't like herself. She doesn't know why he wants to claim her.

But it's almost nice – to be something for once.

* * *

_Soo much talking, but it had to happen sometime. I hope you liked it! I'm going to try to update almost every weekend, depending on how busy my weekends get. Maybe Wednesdays._


	34. Tina VI

_First of all, let me apologize for this taking so long. I've just been super busy, and I'm sorry for that. But here's Tina; I hope you like it!_

* * *

_Wrecking_

_Tina_

"_Anxiety is the space between the "now" and the "then."" – Richard Abell_

* * *

Tina glances up at the clock nervously, sitting straight up in the plastic chair. It's been forty-five minutes. Everyone else has finished the test. Can't he grade any faster?

The classroom for Driver's Ed at the community center is cramped, to say the least. The eleven of them barely fit into the room. She shares a table with a blonde girl who wears the same purple sweatshirt to every class, and a boy with a tattoo of a lion on his left forearm. She can't remember their names, since she usually falls asleep in class. Even if she knew their names, she wouldn't talk to them.

This is the final exam. The last class. Once she completes her driving hours with Tim, she'll be free. Except she's been putting of scheduling the appointments because of the last disaster. She just doesn't want to freak out again. That's a reasonable fear, isn't it?

Her parents don't get it. They think she's being dramatic. They think she's just being antisocial. She's not. She wishes she could talk to people. She _dreams _about having friends and laughing like a normal person. She just _can't_ and she doesn't know why.

Why does it have to be her fault? How can it be her fault?

"Okay!" Rich says from his desk, "Good news, everybody! You all passed!"

No one says anything. That's generally how it goes.

"Now if you're done with your driving hours, stick around and we'll fill out your permit. If not, you're free, and Tim will have your permit ready once your done. Have a great summer!"

She practically leaps from her chair, slinging her bag over her shoulder and finding her mom in the parking lot. The car's idling and as soon as she climbs in, her mother thrusts a stack of papers at her.

"What's this?"

"Your application for counseling at camp, remember? We cleared it with Marcy last year, I just totally spaced and it's due next week! We've got to get it in the mail today, honey!"

"But I never said-"

"You'll be fine," she smiles, "You love singing and dancing. You'll be working with kids and music, it'll be great!"

Tina goes to camp every year, but never as a counselor. Her parents had been talking about her becoming one now that she's older. She could still go to camp and get paid, which would be nice, but she never knew they actually decided she was, you know, _doing it. _

"I… now?"

"Yes. Now," she hands her a pen and starts to drive.

She knows her mom means well, but sometimes she wishes she'd listen.

They reach the post office just as Tina's signing her name and stamping the envelope. She climbs out of the car to place it in the blue mailbox when she spots a familiar face.

"Hey, Tina!" Mike Chang grins, pearly whites shining, "What's up?"

"Oh. Um… hi, Mike," she tries to smile, but it probably looks terrifying. What a freak. Ugh, "I'm just gonna be a counselor this year at camp, so I'm sending the application in…"

"No way, so am I! That's awesome!"

Tina's been going to camp with Mike since they were kids, but they never really talked. He hung out with the boys and outgoing girls. She was always with a smaller group of girls who liked to read and paint. Their paths never crossed much, until glee club.

She attempts to smile again and reaches for the handle to the mailbox. So does he, and their hands brush against each other.

"Sorry!"

"It's alright," he chuckles, holding open the flap for her. She deposits her letter and so does he, "I guess I'll be seeing you, then."

"Yeah," she says, watching him walk off towards his car. From the drivers seat, her mother gives her a look, "What?"

"He's cute."

"Maybe. So?"

She grins.

"_Mom. _It's _one boy-_"

"Oh, just get in the car."

…

They return home after grocery shopping, and once Tina helps her mother by bringing all the frozen foods to the basement and shoving them in the freezer, she notices she has a missed call from Mercedes and decides she ought to call her back. It's polite.

"Hey girlie," Mercedes says as soon as she picks up the phone, "How are you today?"

"I'm… fine. I passed the written test."

"Awesome! Pretty soon and you'll be driving around… with parental supervision. Course, Kurt can always give us rides."

"Yeah, I know," she agrees, even though she doesn't feel like going anywhere ever, "So why did you call?"

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed really…off the other day at Kurt's house."

Great. She wasn't supposed to notice. Why does she have to notice? It's not like there isn't enough going on in their lives. Rachel's sick, and Brittany's sick now too, and Quinn tried to kill herself or something, no one's really sure, but she won't talk to anyone and why do they have to care about _her._

"I wasn't feeling well. I'm okay now."

Mercedes blows a stream of air into the phone, "Not trying to pry, but I've noticed how you get really nervous and everything. Maybe… have you ever tried to talk to anyone about it?"

"… no."

"My cousin had social anxiety, really bad. She like couldn't use public bathrooms or talk and she'd break down when someone asked her a question. She got panic attacks a lot, but she goes to therapy now and she's a lot better. I thought maybe…"

"I don't… I mean, I never…"

"I'm not trying to offend you, really. I'm just worried."

_Worried. _Since when are people worried?

But she's not really thinking about that. She's thinking about how she can't use public bathrooms either, and maybe she gets panic attacks, and maybe she needs therapy. Doesn't that make her crazy?

"I just… I don't know."

"We don't have to talk about it. I just want you to know I'm here. Maybe you should talk to your parents?"

"Maybe…"

"Just a suggestion."

How can she tell her parents that? They'll be disappointed. Everyone will be disappointed. They'll think she's a freak. Like…

"Thanks, Mercedes, but I really have to go."

"Um, okay. Call me later?"

"Sure."

She hangs up the phone and shoves her face into a pillow, trying to stop the breaths.

_Calm. Down._

Artie saw her panic once. They were on a date, just hanging out at his house since it was wheelchair accessible and everything, and all of a sudden she just embarrassed herself in front of his mom and then they were watching a movie and she just couldn't breathe. As hard as she tried, she couldn't control it.

And he just looked at her. He gave that look, like: _Are you serious? Really? You're really doing this right now? _Annoyed. Pissed.

He asked why she was freaking out. She said she didn't know.

"You don't _know_?" he asked, baffled, "What do you mean? You have to have a reason."

"I don't..."

"Well just stop it."

Stop it. As if it had an off switch. If only it had an off switch…

They stopped talking after that and he never understood why. She didn't feel the need to explain it.

Tina lifts her face up for air, heart beating far too fast, and stares at her clock ticking by. Waiting to calm down. Waiting for the panic to fade. Waiting to breathe.

She's always waiting. Maybe she _should _tell her parents? Maybe it would help?

But how? She can't talk to anyone, including her family. She can't function like a normal person. How, exactly, do you cure the dysfunctional?


	35. Rachel VII

_I'M SORRY FOR IT TAKING SO LONG!_

* * *

_Extinguishing_

_Rachel_

* * *

_"You wish you were dead. You want nothing more. Every day, every fucking day, you run up the steps of the house, breathing hard, swing open the cupboards, thinking: You pitiful little bitch. Fucking cow. Greedy pig. All day, your stomach pinches and spits up its bile. You sway when you walk. You begin to get cold again."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

There's blood on her pillow. She's coughing up blood.

It's been two days and Rachel can't get out of bed. Every time she tries, she falls back down, exhausted. She hasn't eaten in two days, either. Maybe that's a good thing. Her throat feels like it's on fire.

Her fathers flutter around her, ever worried. They don't know what to do. Finn calls exactly twelve times, wondering where she is. She doesn't have enough energy to pick up the phone. She doesn't remember what day it is and only senses the passing of time by the rise and fall of the sun out her window.

Something's wrong with her body, that's obvious, though she doesn't know how anything can _be wrong _since she's not thin. She's just too tired to care what's happening.

They spot the blood on her pillow and in the toilet and the blood she coughs up into tissues and paper towels. Of course, then all hell breaks loose, and she's far too broken to stop them from strapping her into the backseat and taking her to the ER.

Finn was going to tell them soon; he just didn't know how to do it. Of course, he didn't understand how they couldn't know, how they couldn't realize their daughter was sick.

She gets it. No one wants to believe their child is crazy. No one wants to think their child who they love so much is perfectly fine with dying right now. They don't want to see it. They don't want to think she could be anything less than perfection.

Well, she's never been perfect. Maybe she never will be. What a shame.

The hospital is too loud, and she spends a good hour not knowing where she is because every time she opens her eyes she's in a new room with a new person asking her questions.

They stab her with an IV to fill her up, like she's a gas tank. Saline. Potassium. She's dehydrated, apparently. Puking does that.

While she's sleeping, they pump her stomach to get rid of the blood. She doesn't want to know how they got a tube down there. She's just thankful she wasn't awake for it.

They say it's a Mallory-Weiss tear – a tear in the esophageal lining, usually seen in bulimics from constant purging. There's medicine that will help her stomach. There's therapy and pills that will help her mind.

She's just thinking about the drip pumping fat inside her. She's come so far, only to fail. They're making her fat, again.

They take her into a cold exam room with no windows and a scale with the numbers facing backwards. A doctor takes her weight, height, and vitals. They refuse to tell her how much she's gained, even though she asks seven times. Her blood pressure is low, so that's why the world turns upside down when she tries to stand up. He pokes around her body like a Thanksgiving turkey, looking for the stuffing.

"How many times did you throw up yesterday?" he asks, pressing his cool fingers into her throat.

_All day._

"I didn't," she swallows.

He raises his eyebrows, "Really?"

She nods. He sighs and continues with his exam.

Low heart rate. Shaky when standing. Swelling of the limbs and throat. Intestinal bleeding. Bloodshot eyes. Acid erosion on her teeth.

She fails with flying colors.

Back in bed, in the room with windows and her fathers pacing in the hallway, a woman with a bright red smile asks her questions. It might be ICU, in the psychiatric ward. The maze of hallways are too big to keep track.

"How do you think you look?"

_Gross._

"What's your ideal weight?"

_95 for starters._

"Do you ever get depressed for long periods of time?"

_The better question is; am I ever happy for any period of time?_

She's pretty sure she failed that test too, and it's obvious when, through the wire mesh window, she sees her dads break down, and then the doctor comes in and tells her she has bulimia nervosa.

Half of her thinks _well that makes sense _and the other half says _bullshit! _and wants to punch him in the face. Maybe that's two halves of her. Maybe that's why she's so messed up.

They tell her once she's stable, she's going to inpatient. She says it's her life and she can do whatever she wants.

Then they tell her she can't sing for a while, maybe not ever again. Stomach acid has been damaging her esophagus for years (no wonder all those cough drops weren't doing their job…). It'll take a long time for the scars to form (if she stops, that is, and if she doesn't her throat will probably rupture and she'll choke on her own blood and die there next to the toilet, like the pathetic piece of shit she is).

She can't sing? Well fuck them, she can sing.

But she can't. Her throat hurts and singing hurts and nothings fair…

She cries when no ones watching, but only in the dark.

…

Finn visits at night. It's only been eight hours since she got to the hospital, but it feels like days. She doesn't even really want to see him – she's too ugly. Why would she want him to see her when she's infested with tubes and wires and pumped full of fat?

He just stands there for a minute, staring at her. At the machines. At her face, the image broken by the feeding tube going up her nose. Her throat hurts too much to eat. She wouldn't eat for them anyway.

His gaze is uncomfortable. All of this is _uncomfortable. _That's why she never wanted everyone to know. It's better if they just see what they want to see.

"You can… sit down, you know," she says softly, looking away to stare at her hands, hospital bracelet hanging off her wrist.

"Right…" he mutters, sitting in the chair next to her bed. He places his hand on top of the bed sheets, open, waiting. She doesn't reach for him, but he leaves it there anyway. Hopeful. Well, he always was persistent.

"You were right. They said I'm sick."

"I know. Your dads told me. Everything's gonna be okay, Rach."

"It's not."

"But it will-"

"They're making me fat, Finn," her head snaps to stare at him, "It's not okay if they're… _ruining_ everything."

"Those doctors saved your life! You know, you could at least _pretend_ you want to live, for everyone else's sake!"

"I _have_ been. Excuse me for getting tired of trying."

His shoulders sag in defeat. She wasn't supposed to say that loud. She wasn't supposed to hurt his feelings. She hurts everyone.

"Well I'm _sorry _for trying to help you. _Sorry_ for being worried, and _I'm sorry_ for _loving you_ and wanting to keep you around."

But nobody loves a stupid girl.

"I just…" but she can't finish her sentence. She doesn't know what to say.

They sit there in awkward silence, listening to the gurgle of machines.

"They found Brittany and Santana, you know?"

"Really?" she hasn't heard anything since she stopped remembering how to sleep. If Brittany's home, she'll visit her. Maybe she'll help get her out-

"Yeah. Britt had a heart attack. From not eating."

He stresses the last part. She stares at his hand, still sitting there, open. Brittany's not dead. He would've told her. Maybe she's in the hospital, too. What does that mean? Neither of them has a chance?

"Oh."

"And Quinn… um…"

"What about Quinn?" why on Earth would he bring _her _up? Quinn's caused enough trouble in her life already…

"She tried to kill herself."

"_Oh…_"

Well. Where did that come from? It was obvious she had been depressed, but Rachel never saw her as the type of person to do that… so really, what ground did she have to stand on, telling her to stop throwing up when Quinn herself wasn't exactly all there in the head?

"She'll be okay. Scared everybody pretty bad, though."

"I'd imagine."

"Kind of like how you keep scaring me. I wish you'd quit doing that…"

"I'm not doing it on purpose."

"I know," he sighs, "I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Slowly, she picks up her hand dangling at her wrist, placing it in his. He's warm. His hand closes around hers. Warm.

"I love you," she mumbles quietly, "And I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," he squeezes her hand.

"I never wanted to… to drag you into this," her voice cracks a little from the swelling, but she feels her eyes growing hot and she hates crying in front of people, especially important people.

"I want to be here. I'm not leaving you."

He wipes a tear away with his thumb, gently stroking her face. She's just so cold, and he's warm. She wishes he could crawl into bed with her to keep her warm and they could lie there forever, and she'd never have to face the world again.

…

It's the middle of the day when Shelby visits. It's been twenty-nine hours since she entered the hospital, and Rachel is surprised. She didn't expect her. It's not like she cares about her anyway (didn't she say it at Regionals? She needs a life _without her in it_).

Her fathers are on a coffee break when she walks in. Shelby sits in a chair and just stares at her for a long time. She wonders how she appears to her. IV, feeding tube, and a heart monitor. What if Shelby had seen her when she had a seizure, or when she threw up blood? Would she have taken pity on her?

Would that have made her want to be her mother?

"I'm sorry I didn't visit sooner," Shelby says quietly, staring at her hands in her lap, "I heard… about how you got sick after Regionals. I didn't want to bother you."

"You wouldn't have bothered me," she smiles, clearing her throat. It's still sore. Talking too much hurts. Perfect excuse to not say anything.

"I thought you seemed… off, when we met? And when I saw you again, it was only worse. I just thought it was some teenage thing, you know? It's not like I actually _know _you… I mean, what do I know, right?" she sniffs, looking away and wiping her eyes, "I just… is this my fault? Because I barged into your life?"

"No. It was going on much longer than that."

"… How long? I have to tell you, I really don't know anything about… eating disorders," Rachel winces at the word, but she continues, "Then is it my fault for never being there for you? For never being your mom?"

"It's not your fault. It's not your fault for what I did."

"I just… I'm sorry. I'm probably making everything worse. I said I'd leave you alone. I shouldn't…"

"Why did you come?"

She stops and looks up, "I… I'm not sure. I just felt like I should."

"I didn't know you cared enough to come."

She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't. She checks her watch and stands up, hand resting near the hospital bed railing, "I should get going. I need to pick up Beth."

"… Beth?"

"Yes, I… well, I didn't want you to find out this way, but I adopted a baby girl. Your friend's baby, actually. Quinn? And the boy's name, Noah, but you all call him something else…"

"Puck," her mouth is dry. _She adopted a baby and she doesn't need you anymore ever again. _It's like a punch in the gut (for, what, the third time?), yet she can't say she didn't expect it (she's rejected her before, after all. Multiple times.).

"Yes, that's it! Puck. I only put her in daycare for half the day so I could… come visit you. Now I suppose… we're done."

They missed their chance. They will never be part of each other's lives…

Slowly, Shelby reaches up her hand and gently strokes her face, careful to avoid the feeding tube going up her nose. It feels… good. But empty, underneath. Fake.

"I've had an eating disorder for four years."

She steps back, face blank, and Rachel wonders if that makes her feel bad for her. She wants her to feel guilty because she was never there. No one was ever there.

Quickly, she leaves, probably to hide. Rachel stares at the ceiling, mulling over how the words _eating disorder _tasted in her mouth.

She doesn't have a mother or a running dream or a functioning body.

At least she has a diagnosis. Maybe that's the only title she'll ever earn again, but she doesn't really care anymore.

She's beginning to wonder when, exactly, she lost her will to live.


	36. Quinn VIII

I'm back!

* * *

_Massacre_

_Quinn_

* * *

"_What were you like before? And you simply stare at them because you can remember no before, and the word you means nothing at all."_

_- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher_

* * *

The days start to drag when Quinn doesn't get out of bed. Home from the hospital, she buries herself underneath blankets and refuses to come out. Her mother brings her meals, which she only eats when she's alone. Her sister flies home all the way from California to visit but she won't talk to her. She can't talk to her. Why would she talk to her when she's the perfect daughter who didn't screw up and would never consider slicing her own skin?

At night, she pokes her head out from underneath the covers and listens to her mother pick up the phone and dial the same number. She hears her screaming the same old arguments.

"You need to come home and see her, Russel!... because she's _your daughter_ and she tried to kill herself! She needs you… oh don't bring that up again, it's over- … that is _not_ why! You-"

It's about then she goes to the bathroom and turns on the water to muffle the voices. Her mother had a repairman take all the locks off of the doors and she stored every sharp object underneath her bed. Even the forks are hidden.

Quinn knows her mother is just trying to protect her, but if she was still going to kill herself, she'd just leave the house in the middle of the night and jump off a bridge.

Life was so much easier when she tried to be who her parents wanted. It wasn't like she knew anything else. Sure, it was suffocating, but it never hurt as bad as this…

What is this, anyway? How can anyone expect her to live when she's ruined everything she's ever had? She doesn't have friends or family or her religion or her child… nothing. Nothing except her mistakes.

The doctor said that was the depression talking, and gave her tiny blue pills to make her happy again. She hasn't been taking them, but her mother's probably mixing them into her food. She refuses to talk to a therapist, too. It's not like she makes house calls, and Quinn won't leave her room. Why should she talk to someone, anyway? No one could understand this. Her own father refuses to even look at her. What sort of hope does she have, if even her family abandoned her?

She doesn't need help. She doesn't _deserve _help. It's her own fault she sinned, and so it's her fault she self-destructed. There's nothing to fix.

"Quinn?" the doorknob turns, and her mother pokes her head into the bathroom, "Oh, there you are. What are you doing in here?"

"Just… sitting."

They're probably both getting flashbacks because of this bathroom. Quinn knows her mother doesn't shower in here anymore. All she sees is her child's blood decorating the tile walls. It must've taken a lot of bleach to erase the memory.

"Hm. Well, why don't you come downstairs for some lunch?" she reaches to turn off the faucet, "And why was the water running?"

"I like the sound," she says simply, and slips through the crack in the doorway, heading straight down the hall and crawling back into bed.

Of course, she can't get away that easily. Her mother arrives a few seconds later, perched on the edge of the mattress.

"Aren't you hungry, sweetie?"

The sound is muffled through sheets: "No."

"Of course," she says quietly, "Caroline was sad you didn't talk to her."

"Hmm."

"Quinn. She wanted to make sure you were alright-"

"Well I'm not. You could've told her that over the phone."

Judy sighs, absently looking around at the blank walls, "You know, we could redecorate in here if you want. Give it some color. A brand new room for a new…"

"What? A new me? How about we just splatter the whole place with red since-"

"I meant a fresh start," her mother cuts her off, "Why won't you just try to work with me, Quinny?"

"I am."

"You're not. That's the first time I've seen you out of bed in a week."

"At least I'm _alive_."

"Don't… don't do that to me. I'd feel much better if you'd just meet with the therapist-"

"No."

"Quinn-"

"_No_."

Her mother stands up and sighs again (she's been a chorus of sighs lately), patting Quinn's leg under the sheets, "I know this isn't the best situation, but you're going to find that nothing ever goes perfectly. I just wish you could help me understand…"

Her footsteps are soft as she leaves the door open behind her.

…

_Nothing ever goes perfectly? _Then how come her mother never lets her life be less than perfect?

Well, it certainly isn't perfect anymore. Quinn took care of that all on her own.

It's not like she can even pretend to be perfect anymore. Anyone who ever thought she was is a fool. Someone simply threw a sheet over her broken pieces, and she learned a long time ago that covering up the mess doesn't fix anything.

Since when does her mother want to understand anything about her life? It's not like she ever cared… she never bothered to _understand _how she got pregnant and why she was keeping it a secret for so long and if she needed help – she just kicked her out. Why should Quinn even bother to let her mother in? Because she let her come home?

That's what really gets her. It's not like her mother was on Daddy's side, because Daddy still won't speak to her. Her mother kicked him out and brought her back. She left her mood alone. She didn't get upset at Quinn's attitude. She had to find her, cut open and bleeding in the middle of the night.

Maybe she gets nightmares about it. Maybe she doesn't sleep much, either. She's probably worried her daughter is going to die at any moment, and Quinn can't fathom how she could have that effect on anyone, especially the woman who went right along with the plans and shut her out of the family. But she must feel that way, or else she wouldn't be reaching out like this.

Even though she's gone, Quinn can't imagine… _Beth_ dying. The thought of it shocks her. It must be even worse for her mother…

She's not positive, but she doesn't think she's going to die (though she hasn't exactly grasped how to move on, either). Maybe her mother deserves to know at least that much.

In the morning (and by morning, it's more like three in the afternoon, but Quinn had been up all night pacing) Judy opens the door and pulls back the curtains, sunlight flooding through the windows.

"I'm going on a walk in an hour with some of the church ladies. You can come if you'd like; they're all quite worried about you. I was thinking about getting Chinese for dinner, but I can cook something too. We could even make it together!"

She twists and turns around the room, straightening up a pillow or picture, chatting about how she has all the ingredients for Quinn's favorite pesto sauce, not once expecting an answer. How does she have all this energy? How does she keep going every single day when her husband left her, one of her daughters is hundreds of miles away, and the other is a loon she has to worry about constantly? She has every right to be upset…

"Mom?"

She turns, one eyebrow raised in surprised. Quinn gets that from her, "Yes, sweetie?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" her mother asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling the blankets back a little. The cool air makes her shiver, "Why?'

"For everything I've done to you…"

"Honey, you haven't _done _anything to me-"

"I'm a bad person," she says, propping her head up on the pillows, bandaged forearm and week-old pajamas exposed to the light. She stares at the white gauze, almost blending in with her cream colored sheets.

"No you're not," Judy's mouth sets in a firm line, "You've made a few mistakes, Quinny. It happens to the best of us."

Right, except mistakes have never been _acceptable_ in this house. Mistakes are forbidden, and she fell from grace so hard and far it took her this long to hit the ground. She let everyone down, including her parents and God and her friends. No one expected her to get herself knocked up and ruin all their plans. No one thought she'd decide to try to kill herself and disrupt their peace.

"I'm a _sinner_."

"Aren't we all?"

"No. Not me."

Her mother chuckles a little, "You're not some sort of martyr, dear. Everyone sins, but God forgives-"

"No one will ever forgive me."

"Of course-"

"Daddy won't forgive me!"

She frowns, "Your father is far from perfect. He's the last one you should be looking for forgiveness from."

Maybe that's true, but she still can't see how she's supposed to let go of the one man she's always tried to impress. Then again, she's tried to impress her mother too, yet here she is, telling her what's wrong. It's unfamiliar territory; they've never been much for talking about their feelings. Maybe it's different now with her father gone. Either way, it's a start, isn't it?

"Daddy thinks I'm a whore."

She stares at the wall, but her mother's answer is quick: "Your father is too judgmental for his own good, Quinn."

Too judgmental. They all are, aren't they? She thought her mother was, until she got out from underneath her father's thumb. She's starting to realize that they don't really know each other at all. They only saw each other's character they played for their leading man.

"You made a mistake, honey," Judy continues, filling the silence, "Everyone makes mistakes."

"I'm not supposed to."

"I know… we might've taught you differently, but you're human. We all are. Everyone messes up. Everyone _sins. _Even him."

Adultery is certainly a sin, and she idly wonders how long it had been going on. How could she be such a disappointment when he was breaking his own rules? Was his daughter supposed to be innocent, never marred by his own mistakes or scars to remind him of his choices? It was her job to be perfect. It was their job to protect her, and they let her down. Both of them.

"You let him kick me out."

Judy sighs, "I know. I never… I should've left with you, at least. I just didn't know what to do."

"Stop him."

It sounds simple enough, but she knows it would've been more difficult in practice, "That's a mistake I made. I understand if you never forgive me for that."

"Mm."

"Having sex doesn't make you a whore, Quinn. It doesn't make you a bad person. You shouldn't listen to anything _Russel _says."

She doesn't answer. Her mother places a hand on her knee, "I'm sorry for letting all this happen… for you growing up in this house…"

"You were just… doing your best. I should've tried harder."

"Oh baby, you shouldn't have to try!"

"I failed everyone…"

"You didn't fail me!" her mother says firmly, reaching out and squeezing Quinn in a hug, "You could never fail me."

She breathes in her scent, soap and lavender, and closes her eyes, tears dripping into her mother's shoulder as her voice shakes, "I'm sorry I scared you. I just… I wanted to stop feeling so horrible all the time."

"It's okay. It's okay."

Her mother rubs circles into her back as Quinn tries to wipe the snot from her nose, wondering why this is making her cry. Thinking about how she'll never get to hold her baby like this. She doesn't even know if she wants that. Of course she _wants _it, but she can't have it.

"I'm sick of being sad."

"The doctor said you have depression. You'll be okay once you start going to therapy and you medication kicks in."

"They can't fix me. I can't…"

"You can. If we taught you one thing, it's how to follow through."

She could laugh at the thought of all the trouble she's followed through on if she wasn't crying.

"I just miss her, mom."

"The baby? Yes, I read that missing her is normal…"

"You read?"

"I did some research, yes. I was trying to understand…"

The fact that her mother was making any effort to look up the effects of adoption on biological mothers astounds her, "But I… she was a mistake. I shouldn't miss her."

"Oh, I don't think babies are mistakes, Quinny, no matter the circumstances. God was trying to teach you something."

God's always trying to teach her something, according to her family. God is fire and brimstone and only lets the best little girls into Heaven. Except her mother doesn't think she belongs in Hell anymore. Maybe she never did in the first place.

"… how can I believe in God when he made me this sad?"

"I just know everything happens for a reason, baby. Even all this. I have to believe it, or there'd be no reason to my life."

Quinn envies that faith, as her mother rocks her back and forth in her arms. Envies that security. Her every form of safety has been shattered. There's nowhere to turn. Except her one comfort has been here, waiting for her all this time. If she can only share one thing with her mother, it's the experience of living with her father and his expectations. There could be hope in that.


	37. Brittany III

_Ruination_

_Brittany_

"_She starves proudly, waits, like a saint, she waits for death by fire or baptism." _

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

Brittany shivers in her thin paper gown as the nurse clears the scale, hitting a few buttons before the screen flashes 00.0.

"Go ahead."

She closes her eyes, listening to the metal creak beneath her as she steps up.

The nurse writes down the numbers, but before she shuts it off Brittany sees it: 124. That's up a pound from yesterday. BMI of 18.9. Underweight by their standards, but not by hers.

A blood pressure cuff is fastened around her upper arm. She sits on the high bed, breathing around the feeding tube still stuck up her nose. They asked her if she would eat by herself if they took it out. She answered honestly and said no. Of course she won't eat. Why would she want to eat? Apparently no was the wrong answer, because the feeding tube stayed.

"You're higher than yesterday," the nurse comments, writing more numbers with purple pen on a chart, "Temperature time."

A thermometer is inserted into her mouth. She clenches it under her tongue, staring as the number goes up, up, until it stops.

"Better than yesterday, but still low. Your fingertips are still a bit blue, too," the nurse rubs Brittany's fingers in between her palms, friction warming them, "Feeling any better?"

It's been five days. She doesn't understand why they're keeping her here. They said she has anorexia, but if she did she'd be much thinner and everyone would be a lot more worried. She's not nearly sick enough to be sick. She's not sick at all.

"My hair stopped falling out."

"Good. Your body will heal if you keep taking care of it," the nurse smiles, lightly touching the fuzz growing on Brittany's arms and face before patting her bony shoulder, "You're done for the morning. Someone will be in to check your urine around ten."

Right; it's six am. They're early risers in the hospital. Brittany shuffles back to her room, nurse at her side, and crawls underneath the covers, though they don't warm her up much. She hasn't been warm in a very long time.

One of her parents visits every day. They don't visit together anymore. That's better, because no one yells. They just cry or stare off into space. Santana's visited twice; both times she just held her hand and talked about the weather and traffic and how she'll feel better if she eats. Brittany knows her dad's in jail and her mom won't talk to anyone, but Santana doesn't mention it except for when she tells her the news. She's probably still mad that she told.

The hospital's been stuffing her full of calories and vitamins since she arrived to get her weight up. She's gained almost ten pounds. The doctor says her body was starving, so it's latching onto all the food and rebounding quickly. Really, they're just making life more difficult for her. She was happy when she was losing weight. Her body was fine. This is ruining everything.

Even though it's unbearably early, Brittany can't get herself to fall back asleep. Two hours later a nurse arrives, announcing "breakfast!" in a happy tone and hooking up the feeding tube. She stares at the blanket, tracing the stitches with her eyes, trying to not clench her teeth. If they notice her "resisting intake" she'll be kept here longer. The last thing she wants is to stay here. Her entire goal for the moment is getting out. Then she'll get things back on track.

As promised, someone measures her pee at ten. She's gotten pretty used to them watching her go to the bathroom – she's not allowed to go alone in case she tries to throw up, even though she's told them she doesn't do that. Rachel does that. The thought sends shivers through her, and she wonders how Rachel's doing. Santana said something about her being sick... that she had to go to the hospital too. Rachel is hurting herself. Rachel needs to get better, just like Brittany.

Except no, not like Brittany because Brittany isn't sick. She can't be sick. Rachel is, because Rachel was throwing up all the time and that can really hurt someone, but Brittany doesn't throw up. She can't throw up like that, so she's okay. She's not that thin… and a heart attack… heart attacks are from loving too much. Does she just love Santana too much? How is it possible to love her too much?

"Good morning, Brittany," a woman with curly red hair chirps, clipboard in hand as she enters the room uninvited and sits down next to the bed. It takes a second for Brittany to realize this is her psychologist, whose name she can't remember. She's the one who asked her how thin she wanted to be and what her family was like and if she would eat if they took out the feeding tube. She's trying to be her friend, but Brittany isn't buying it. It's not like she can replace Santana, except she probably isn't trying to, since she wants to talk about everything and Santana would much rather make out than even talk about something as simple as kittens or how come they can't kiss in public.

"How are you feeling today?" the woman continues, scribbling on a sheet of paper.

"Okay," Brittany says, even though she isn't really sure why anyone bothers to ask her that question. She's in a hospital and has a tube shoved up her nose. Why would she feel any better than _terrible_?

"That's good," she smiles, "Now, I'm here to talk to you and see how you're doing since you were admitted."

Brittany isn't sure why she's explaining all this. She doesn't say anything.

"You're still underweight, but your parents feel it would be best for your recovery if you were at home. You doctor has cleared this decision because your vitals are stable, but you have to keep eating and drinking."

She nods. Home. She gets to go home. No one will watch her there. She'll be free…

"I need a definite answer, Brittany."

"Yes. I'll take care of myself."

She uncrosses her fingers from underneath the sheets. Promises don't mean anything without a pinky swear. She learned that a long time ago.

"The doctors will take your feeding tube out this afternoon. Your parents are going to be given a meal plan for you and you're going to be set up with an outpatient program with therapy twice a week. Does that sound okay?"

"Yes."

"Alright. How about you get some rest before the big move home?"

Brittany smiles as the woman leaves, settling back on her pillows. No more hospitals. No more daily weigh ins. No one watching her pee, and if life's just like it's always been, no one watching her eat. Maybe things will be a little different, but not my much. After all, her parents never were very observant.

…

"Ready to go?" her mother smiles. It's a little after four in the afternoon. Brittany's changed out of her hospital gown and into normal clothes, free of all wires and artificial attachments. There's a stack of papers in her mother's bag; the rules to her life from now on to keep her fat. Everyone always says rules were made to be broken.

She waits in the car while her mother is given a debriefing on how to monitor her daughter's weight and keep track of her intake. Brittany starts therapy tomorrow afternoon, where she'll have to talk about every little thing that goes on inside her head to some shrink who nods a lot and expects her to cry her feelings out. That's not going to happen if she can help it, unless crying somehow gets rid of all the fat she's gained. She can feel it dragging her down, pooling on her thighs, stomach, everywhere. It's suffocating.

They don't talk much on the car ride home. Her mother constantly fiddles with the radio, making small talk about the traffic and work.

"You know honey, we really should go get your hair styled. It'll be fun."

"I like my hair," Brittany says, which is sort of a lie because she doesn't like anything about herself, but she doesn't deserve to have nice hair. It's brittle and matted and she hasn't properly combed it in over a week, but that's the way it should be. She has ugly hair to match her ugly body. It fits.

"Well then how about a spa day? There's a new place downtown that does lovely pedicures."

"I really don't feel like it."

"Oh."

In a way, she already misses the quiet of the hospital. They made her fat, but at least they didn't make her try to be normal. She didn't have to put in any effort to please her mother. She's done trying.

"I'm just tired, mom."

"Well, why don't you go up to bed? I'll fix a nice dinner and we can all eat together as a family. Won't that be fun?"

It sounds like hell, but Brittany just nods and unbuckles her seatbelt as the car pulls into the driveway.

Upstairs, she doesn't get in bed. She lays down on the floor of her room and starts doing crunches on autopilot, like nothing's changed. As far as she's concerned, nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

They don't eat together. She falls asleep in the early hours of the morning, staying on the floor because she doesn't feel like she deserves a bed. The bed is too comfortable, and she's so huge she'll break the bed if she so much as touches it.

None of them have changed. Why should she?

* * *

_Sorry it's short! Hope you liked it. I'm super busy now, but I'm determined to finish this story this summer, so stay tuned!_


	38. Santana V

_Wipeout_

_Santana_

* * *

_"All I ever did was love him."_

_- Skinny by Ibi Kaslik_

* * *

The house is absolutely silent. That's not so unusual, but it's the fact that Santana knows Papa's missing that makes it so eerie. She thought she'd be relieved when he was gone. Instead, she's uneasy. Lost. She doesn't know what to do with herself.

She's barely spoken to her mother since the police questioned them all to file the report and charges. Angelita has been keeping to herself mostly, and Santana can't think of anything to say to her besides the usual pleasantries. She let her down. Her one job was to protect her little sister and she couldn't do it. She couldn't protect Angel and she couldn't protect Brittany. She's failed on all fronts. The enemy has invaded her trenches.

When the police questioned her, Angel said Papa didn't actually rape her, only touched her. (_he _would_ start off slow like that, wouldn't he?_) It doesn't make it any easier. It's not like she knows how to talk about it. There's nothing to say anymore. What can she say? _Sorry I let Papa hurt you? See how it feels?_

(_you've never talked about this_)

When the police asked _her _about it… well, all Santana wanted to do was run away. She didn't. She sat still and answered every one of their questions, every dirty detail, but she didn't cry. She told herself she wasn't allowed to cry again. She's cried enough for a long time.

It still doesn't feel real. He's gone, but he could easily come back. They could easily go through hell and back again only to have him come home with no consequences. What would happen then? Would he finally lay a firmer hand on her, break her neck? For some reason, that thought isn't scary.

Maybe after all this time, she'd rather be hurt physically than emotionally. At least blood dries and pain fades. She'll always remember every night he came into her room, the way the floorboards squeaked underneath his steps…

Maybe she'd rather have him kill her than have to turn the memories over and over in her head for the rest of her life.

But she can't do it. She can't sit here and think about it. She just can't.

Santana grabs her car keys, walking past her sister's room towards the front door, "I'm going out, Angel!"

"Will you come home?" her small voice calls softly, and the guilt rips through her again. _She left her here, alone, forever, without even thinking…_

"Yes."

The front door slams shut behind her, rattling in the frame. She feels every creak of the porch steps vibrating though her. They're worse than gunshots. Worse than any torture. Every sound cuts straight through her body.

It was the little details, the faintest echoes, that kept her up at night. Creaking floorboards. Liquid being poured. The pound of his boots. The springs in the mattress heaving—

It spirals, cycles, and she stumbles to the car and roars the engine to life, blasting the radio to finally drown out her senses.

Once she's on the road, she doesn't really know where to go. It's impossible to escape her own head. There's nowhere to run, besides into the arms of someone else, except there's no one here anymore. She's really alone, for once.

Being alone doesn't make sense. She's never been alone; he was always there. Someone was always there. She can't be alone…

Alone, she remembers.

Before Angel was born, Papa had a better job. Santana was five. Mama sang her Spanish lullabies. Papa was always distant. He never showed affection, but he wasn't cruel. He bought her mint chocolate chip ice cream when they took trips to the park. Mama chased her around in the grass while he smoked a cigarette. He always smelled like that – smoke and earth. It was comforting then.

It didn't matter if he never really hugged her. He was still her father. She loved him anyway. She was his _poco conejito_.

Now Santana realizes that her mother hid a lot from her back then. She doesn't remember Papa hurting Mama until later because she never saw it. Her entire childhood, brief as it was, was a bubble. The three of them spoke only Spanish at home, and at night Mama told stories about Colombia, a place Santana could only dream about. Her grandparents lived there, who she could only picture in her head. The place was painted as colorful and majestic. In her eyes, anything was better than their small home on the wrong end of town.

Everything changed very quickly once Papa lost his job. The fights were thrown right in her face. She learned to stay in her room as often as possible, to stop asking for things, to take care of herself. He only smelled like alcohol; the whole house did. They stopped speaking Spanish because no one wanted to think about the past anymore and how they couldn't get back to it. Only the screams were in a different tongue, because her parents still thought she might not know enough of the language to understand. Of course, she always knew. She just never told them. She didn't want to hear the stories about Colombia anymore, but Mama stopped telling them anyway. Santana tucked herself in and dreamed about the Hollywood she saw in the magazines. She imagined a life as a famous movie star to drown out the sounds.

Papa didn't call her his _poco conejito _anymore. He didn't call her anything. They barely spoke.

It was the in-between time. She had to fend for herself mostly, but it wasn't so bad. She still had innocent years before that night…

She's driven herself to the park. She hasn't been here in ages, so Santana parks the car and walks through the summer flowers to a grassy area and sits down.

There's going to be a trial, eventually. She's the main witness. They're going to ask her all kinds of questions in front of people. She's going to have to answer them out loud with him sitting _right there right in front of her-_

She couldn't save Angel, she couldn't save Brittany, and now she can't even save herself. But what is there to save anymore? She's already broken.

Giving up is letting him win, but he's always won. _He's always the winner. _She could just let it all go, stick it out a few more years, try to get into college far away on scholarship and never go back and pretend it all never happened; suffer through a few awkward holidays home faking pleasant conversation, living with the guilt that he's probably moved onto her sister.

She could drop the charges and stay quiet. It's not too late to backpedal. It's not too late.

Not too late. To try.

The police say she's already done the hardest part – telling. What they forgot to mention is that there's a lot more telling she has to do. It might not even do any good. If they lose in court, he'll be free. He'll come back home and make their lives even worse…

The hardest part wasn't telling. She'll always carry the hardest part with her – the memories. They'll stay with her for the rest of her life. They'll distance her from everyone she meets, everyone she wants to get close to.

And they expect her to tell them these memories out loud, with him sitting right in front of her. Looking him in the face and biting back.

As strong as she pretends to be, she's not a fighter. She's just scared.

Any other time she would've called Brittany – probably not to talk, but to just be with her. She'd even settle for talking at this point if it got the two of them in the same room. Since Brittany got out of the hospital, she hasn't been returning Santana's phone calls. Not only is she dealing with her family, but her best friend is avoiding her. Maybe she's so wrapped up in recovering, she's too busy to talk. Santana would like to believe that, but somehow she knows it can't be true.

She misses Brittany. She misses feeling safe. All she wants is somewhere to go where her past and present can't follow her.

* * *

_Sorry for not updating everyone! I'm trying! I've just been really busy, but I promise I'm going to finish this! Review so I know you're still around!_


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